NYC
by Broadway
Summary: The names Summers- Scott Summers. Private I; employer of my secretary Rogue; searching for some kid named Remy; sucker for redheads.
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: I own every single character in here. They're mine to do with as I please. I own Every. Single. One.   
Obviously that's a big fat lie!!!!! Marvel owns them; I don't even own a hair on Scott's chinny chin chin.  
  
Couple of Notes that will be REALLY helpful: It's Alternate Universe set in the forties in NYC. Scott's a Private Eye, Jean and Remy are brother and sister, and trust me, Rogue fits into it. But you'll just have to find out how later...  
  
  
NYC  
  
Private Detective Summers tipped his head back and covered his eyes with the brim of his charcoal black hat. The fresh case lain before him not five minutes ago by a spicy redhead was definitely a challenge. How do you find a very rich, very discreet Manhattan smuggler that undoubtedly had the entire city's underground in the palm of his hand?  
  
The door to Scott's office creaked open and a mass of auburn hair with a shock of white peaked through the crack. The curvaceous body of a slender woman made her way into the room and perched herself in a chair placed in front of the detectives desk.   
  
"Can I help you, Cher?" Scott asked his sassy, southern secretary of three years, Cheryl Knight whom more than often preferred to be addressed as Cher. The woman simply shot him a knowing look and tried in vain to suppress the smile curling at the corners of her dark red lip-sticked lips. "What's so funny?"  
  
She shrugged. "Nothing. Ah'm just glad to see your eyes back in your head, Ah guess, that's all."  
  
He leaned back in his chair and straightened his shoulders, eyebrows lifting in mild amusement. "Excuse me?"  
  
She cracked a grin."Ah had no idea you were weak for redheads." She paused and respectively let the humorous mood slip away as she proceeded to pick questions about the woman. "Who was she?"  
  
"Her name," he glanced down at the notebook still open to the page he had been scribbling in, "is Jean White."  
  
"Ah, and what does Ms. White require of yah?"  
  
"Find her missing brother as of three nights ago. His name: Remy White." Scott took in the startled expression on the face of his secretary. "Sound familiar?" She stared at him absently. "That's right, the same Remy White notorious in our records for smuggling every kind of merchandise from jewelry to guns to drugs. Who knew he had a sister? How cute," Scott added wryly before a disgusted look overcame his handsome features. "It makes me sick that men like that drag good people like this Jean woman into their sad little lives without their even knowing."  
  
"You mean this woman, Jean, doesn't know what her brother does for a living?" Cher asked, blowing a rogue strand of hair out of her bright green eyes.  
  
"Nope. I guess she doesn't bother to know where her penthouses or pearls come from as long as they come." He threw a smile to Cher. "Just like a woman, hmm?"  
  
Before Cher could retort, the phone rang on her desk outside the detective's office. She strode purposefully out of the room and Scott heard her announce "Detective Scott Summahs office" in her thick Southern drawl.  
  
He kicked back in his chair, pleasing creaks emanating from the worn wooden legs, and thought again about tackling the case. He was already mentally listing people on the streets he could dig up for dirt, anything that could be helpful in finding this low-down, rotten thief. His mind wandered to the pretty li'l thing that sauntered into his office, asking he find her brother.  
  
Scott still found it hard to believe a scoundrel like Remy was in any way related to a woman like Jean. Had she been any other type of broad, Scott would have dismissed the whole thing as a good for nothing mongrel running away from his problems, probably impregnating his girlfriend or something of that sort. But no, Jean had class, style, a certain sophisticated air that lingered in her presence with her head held high and her hands folded primly in the lap of her modest, shin-length skirt.   
  
Scott sighed. Oh well, he said he'd take the case and he did, now it was up to him to find the kid. And why did I take the case, Scott pondered silently. But one thought of the client that had moved into his office with a sway of those hips that he was willing to bet was illegal in nine states and flaunting that glorious mane of crimson curls he was certain she knew he had a weakness for, and he remembered exactly why he took the case.  
  
Detective Summers smirked inwardly, shaking the thoughts from his head and focusing on the problem at hand: a missing thief. How do you find a very rich, very discreet Manhattan smuggler that undoubtedly had the entire city's underground in the palm of his hand?  
  
Simple, one word: connections.  
  
End Chapter One  
  
You like? No like? Drop a review either way, why not? LOTS of characters we've come to know and love will be coming in and out, but mainly Jean, Scott, Rogue, and Remy. Wanna see someone make an appearance? Tell me, why dontchya'?  



	2. ch.2

Disclaimer: Dear Santa, for Christmas, I would like Rogue, Remy, Scott, and Jean. What are you talking about you can't do that? BASTARD! ~ahem~ sorry. Obviously, none of the recognizable characters belong to me. They're Stan the Man's, but if I can't have 'em, who better to own them, eh?  
  
HELPFUL notes: Despite his relation to Jean, Remy is still Cajun, and will be referred to as such. They're, um, step siblings...yeah.   
  
  
NYC  
  
  
Detective Summers crept silently into the small NYPD office, the door labeled "Secretary." His prey was leaning over a mass of papers on her desk, her violet strands falling all around her as she scribbled vigorously on a form of some kind. Without warning, Scott slammed both palms of his hands on the desk she was sitting at, causing Betsy to jump with a start before realizing who it was.  
  
"Scott! What do you thing you're doing, you crazy nut?" She sat back in her chair and regained her composure. Scott grinned in reply, shrugging as he set his hat and coat in a chair.  
  
"What!? No, 'How ya' been, Scott?' or 'Long time, no see!'"  
  
Elisabeth Braddock, secretary to the entire fifth division of the NYPD, tried extremely hard to look stern at the man before her, but the smile forming on her peach colored lips belied any anger she was trying to display. "What do you want, Summers?"  
  
Scott started for the file cabinet beside her desk. "A house on the beach, a million dollars, and a beautiful purple-haired wife wouldn't hurt, either." He stole a glance at Elisabeth; she simply shook her head in mock disapproval at his childish flirting. Scott decided time was wasting, so he shot right to the point, opening the top drawer and dumbly flipping through file tabs. "I'm looking for a file on a man named Remy White. I know he's got some dirt under the fingernails, if you know what I mean, but I want specifics."  
  
Betsy stood and crossed to where he was standing. "No way! Jesus Scott, you couldn't have picked a worse time to go hunting for that one's file."  
  
Scott paused in his searching for a second. "What? Why?"  
  
Betsy almost covered her startled look completely. Almost. "You...you don't know? Then what do you want with him if you don't know?"  
  
"Don't know what, Betts?" Scott took a step forward.  
  
For a brief moment, the secretary looked as if she was actually going to protest telling him, but she soon realized it was futile and sighed in defeat instead. "Remy White is a primary suspect for the Manhattan murders."  
  
Scott nearly swallowed his tongue. Five women...no, six now, including the one found four nights ago and tearing up the New York headlines since, had been found strangled to death and thrown into a ditch, referred to widely now as the Manhattan Massacre. "What! Are you serious? Remy White?"  
  
Betsy strode over and picked a newspaper from her desk, popping her gum nonchalantly in the process. "Not only that, but his chances are looking mighty good for hanging for this little number, too."  
  
Scott snatched the paper with a surprisingly steady hand and read the front-page headline. Prominent Businessman Found Dead. The article described the death of prestige entrepreneur Charles Xavier, business partner of a Mr. Eric Lensherr. Scott read on. Apparently Xavier was found dead outside his apartment three nights ago, shot twice in the chest.  
  
Betsy settled onto her desk, crossing her legs and leaning back on her hands as she spoke. "Lensherr was inside the man's apartment, says he heard the whole thing. Claims he heard Remy and this Xavier guy arguing outside the door then BAM. Next thing he knows he hears footsteps bolting down the hall and by the time Lensherr got there, White was gone."  
  
Scott nodded, dumbfounded. "You believe him?"  
  
"Well sure I do, kid. I mean, there's other witnesses that say they saw a tall, auburn-haired man in the apartment building that night, so I'd say it's pretty obvious." She paused and looked back at Scott. "So now you see why I can't let you have the file on the guy."  
  
Detective Summers tilted his head slightly, immediately slipping from shock to persuasive mode. "Aw, c'mon Betts. Do it for your ole pal, Scott?"   
  
Betsy shook her head firmly. "Nope. My boss'll kill me. You know how McCoy gets."  
  
Ten seconds later Betsy was expertly thumbing through the tabs, stopping at 'White' and reluctantly slipping it out of the cabinet. "You owe me one, Summers. I'm surprised it's even here." She handed him the manila folder and he graciously thanked her before slipping back out the door.  
  
**  
  
Summers screwed his eyes shut later that night and rubbed the strain from his eyelids. He glanced at the clock over his office door only to find it stopped at three. "Cher! What time is it?"  
  
The sweet southern belle stepped through the door so quickly Scott had the suspicion she was waiting by the door with that cup of coffee in hand for hours. The steam produced seemingly from the brim told him otherwise, though. "Eleven, sugah. Why? Yoah clock broke?"  
  
The detective accepted the mug and nodded. "Yep. Now Cher, as my secretary, I would like you to fix this little problem, okay? I know sometimes we forget these things." He shot a playful grin her way to which she smiled sarcastically.   
  
"Gotten any work done, Summahs, or have you been sitting on your hands dreaming about that li'l redhead of yours?"  
  
"Actually, I've been killing myself over this file." He gestured toward the papers strewn before him. "I've got to get it back to Betsy by tomorrow or she'll kill me."  
  
"Who's is it? That Remy guy's?"  
  
Scott sighed in exhaustion. "Yeah. The kid's record is basically clean, but my gut tells me his conscience isn't so lucky. Which means only one thing."  
  
"He's smart." Cher finished for him.  
  
"The only mentionable scratch on here is a good sized warehouse bust roughly seven months ago carrying merchandise collectively worth up to forty grand. An old friend of ours was involved in that one, believe it or not." Cher's finely kempt eyebrows rose in interest, for she knew exactly who the detective was referring to: the only person he addressed as 'old friend.' Scott went on. "Impressive list of addresses here, though. Let's see," he skimmed over the pages, " he's got an estate in New Orleans, a penthouse here in Manhattan, a mansion in L.A." Scott conveniently did not mention the Manhattan Massacre to his secretary. He decided to hold off on that until he was positive. Besides, it wasn't his job to discover a murderer, or prove him guilty or innocent. All he was getting paid for at the moment was finding a man by the name of Remy White, killer or no killer.  
  
Cher fidgeted nervously, lacing her slender fingers with one another. "Hmm, I see. So Ah guess the question is, where do you go from heuh?"  
  
"To the bar, Cher. Where else?"  
  
Cher scoffed. "Gawd. Going to tip down a drink when there's a case that needs solvin'. Just like a man."  
  
Instead of coming back with a cute remark, Scott grabbed his coat and hat and led Cher out the door with him, locking it up for the night behind him. "Actually, no. I am going to the bar to find an old friend."  
  
On the sidewalk rainwater drizzled, seeping into Cher and Scott's clothes and the dark pavement, giving it a slick, glossy look. The pair waited for a taxi and chatted idly. Finally, a bright yellow cab pulled up beside them, and Scott chivalrously told Cher she could take this one and he'd wait for the next, like he did every night.   
  
To both of their surprise, Jean stepped out of the car, looking purposefully at Scott. Cher slipped a wink at the detective before waving a good-bye to the both of them and riding off.  
  
"Ms. White." Summers coughed nervously. "What can I do for you?"  
  
She smiled sweetly- a smile Scott was sure had a list of broken hearts behind it. "I'm sorry. Did I catch you at a bad time? It looks like you're trying to get home."  
  
He shook his head quickly. "Oh, no. Never an inconvenient time for a client."  
  
"I would have been here sooner, but I did some window shopping." She smiled sheepishly, raising the few large bags in her hands with the golden print Bloomingdale's scrawled across the front. Her brother obviously took care of all her needs, even the essential need to buy the latest fashion in dresses.  
  
"Geesh! Did you buy the town?"   
  
A melodious laugh caressed the damp air, and to Scott's amazement, the sound sent a pleasant shiver up his spine. "I tried." She paused and the amusing twinkle her eyes made set almost immediately to serious, as if she felt bad for giggling when her brother was missing. "I really came here to find out how the search was going for Remy."  
  
Scott took a quick intake of breath, as if he was unsure how to word his next sentence. "It's going...well."  
  
A delicate rust colored eyebrow rose in question. "Well?"  
  
Suddenly, Scott felt a great swell of pity for the woman before him. The poor dame had no idea what kind of person her beloved brother was, and yet she stood here, extremely concerned for the rat's well being. Disconcerting to say the least. "Yes, well."  
  
She stared at him with large innocent eyes, as deep and blue as the ocean. They were questing for information, information he wasn't willing to shatter her illusion of her big brother with. As opposed to doing just that, he closed more of the gap between them with his own body and brought a hand to her shoulder, capturing her eyes with his own chestnut brown ones.  
  
"Jean, I will find him. I know your mind is imagining the worst right now, but Remy is alive, and I will find him."  
  
Jean, her heart thumping wildly at both the confusion and excitement at the intimate moment just created between them, nodded weakly. Scott, too, was moved by the electricity that seemed to pulse from their brief connection.   
  
"Um," he couldn't see, but he was positive he was blushing furiously. "Do you need a hand?" He nodded toward the bags.   
  
She glanced down and began to gratefully nod her head yes, but stopped dead and stuttered out a polite refusal, hastily backing away and waving down a cab. She choked out a quick good-bye and smiled before riding away.  
  
Scott stood speechless, staring after the taxi, the rain thankfully letting up and sharing nighttime with the moon. Detective Summers felt an overwhelming sense of no control, something he really hated. This, he remembered, was why he hated to fall in love. It brought nothing but confusion, uncertainty, and most importantly, heartache. And Scott had a feeling this particular broad was very capable of bringing on just such an immense heartache, one he was entirely not ready to deal with. But in the back of his brain, a voice told him that she would indeed persist until she held his very heart in the palm of her little hand, and an even tinier voice told him he was willing to let it happen.  
  
**  
  
Barry's Hideaway was packed. After all, it was hitting midnight on a Friday, and this was the hottest place in town. The detective wasn't here for the stiff drinks or even women, not tonight anyway. He was here to have a friendly chat with someone, and that someone was sitting right at his usual table: the booth that lurked in the corner of the room, surrounded by heavy smoke and dangerous men in sleek black suits. Scott made his way toward the tiny glowing ember that appeared to be floating, but at closer look was seen to be the tip of a thick cigar. In this particular dark spot set aside for the man Scott came to see and his 'associates', the prevailing, eerie silence, made from men pitching 'deals' and hands sliding beneath the table to exchange one good or another, seemed to drown out the droning buzz of music, glasses clinking, and people chatting at the bar that seemed to be a million miles away at this point. Once you crossed a certain invisible line going to the dark corner booth in Barry's Hideaway, you were no longer a fella buying a drink, but a Tommy packing, drug-dealing thug with darting eyes and a heart made of pure sticky greed.  
  
Summers slid easily into the booth before the man clearly running the operation. The guy had thick, coarse black hair and two hollow coals for eyes that bore into a soul with a glance. The two men went back, and not the good way.  
  
Scott cleared his throat and managed a stiff nod of the head. "Logan."  
  
"Nice suit, Summers. You look like shit."   
  
"Don't hold back. Tell me how you really feel."   
  
Logan took a swig of the amber colored brandy and savored the burn that embraced his throat before saying, "Ain't it past yer bedtime?"   
  
Scott, choosing to ignore the comment, put forth his question. "Do you know a man named Remy White?"  
  
Logan stiffened considerably, but not enough for the human eye to detect. "No." He said shortly.  
  
The detective sighed. "Why do you lie to me, Logan?"  
  
" 'Cause you're always on my ass about something, Private Dick, always tryin' to get me thrown in the slammer. Even if I did tell you the truth, I'm willing to bet you wouldn't even believe me." He snapped.  
  
"You see, that's where you're wrong old friend. Had you initially told me the truth about knowing Remy White, I would indeed have believed you because I have this little thing we Private Dick's like to call evidence, records," Scott slammed several photos in front of him onto the table, "and most importantly- photographs."  
  
Logan peered down at his own face staring up at him in black and white. He immediately knew exactly what these pictures were. The warehouse-bust on the corner of Sax and 5th a couple of months ago, the only time he'd ever been caught red-handed. It was a sloppy shipment, he and Remy's men had been slacking. Summers had been damn disappointed he hadn't been there to snap the handcuffs on Logan, but that was enough to keep the Canadian born smuggler satisfied. Logan remembered having the distinct feeling he was being watched that night, but his lacquer-fogged brain had dismissed it. Obviously, he had been right. He cursed himself for not taking his usual course of action, trusting his instincts, and bolting the hell out of there.   
  
"See? Now why don't you cut the crap, Logan, and tell me where he is."  
  
"Why? Who's askin' for him?"  
  
Scott gritted his teeth in frustration but swallowed hard and plastered a smile on his face. "A family member, believe it or not."  
  
Logan met Summers' eyes. "A family member?" He repeated tersely.  
  
"Mm-hmm. Who would have thought, but he's got a pretty li'l sister, a redhead. Jean, I think her name is." Scott tried to sound as detached as possible to the woman he just met and already found himself thinking about more often than not. Unbeknown to Scott, Logan's jaw tensed. "You heard of her?"  
  
Logan nodded. "Yeah, I met her once or twice. She and the Cajun are real close, so if she don't know where the kid is, I'm sure as hell ain't gonna be of much use to ya'." Logan paused and thought of how to word his next sentence without sounding too concerned or giving any more information than he had to. He truly didn't know where Remy was, but he didn't want to give Scott any clues as to where he might  
be. "I know one thing for sure, though: Remy doesn't run...from anything. He faces his problems like a man, one of the things I like about the guy. As for his sister, I'd stay away from her if I were you. Remy catches you even looking at her in a way he isn't appreciative of, and you won't have any trouble finding him- he'll be at your front door by the time you make it home." There was an unmentioned "same goes for me" that hung in the cigar smoke between them.  
  
Detective Summers left the bar around one, his mind awhirl with more things than he was willing to sort at this time of the night. Logan said Remy a.) wouldn't run from his problems, and b.) was very close to Jean. These things in mind, Scott was now sure Remy was somewhere in the city as opposed to at one of his other estates on the other side of the country. That made Summers feel a whole lot better, to say the least. The last thing he wanted to do was go trekking across the U.S. in search of Remy. Then there was this Jean woman. Damn, Scott didn't know what the hell to think about this doll. Logan made it clear she was off limits for one reason or another , and even if he did play his cards right and get the barest chance of a shot with her, it was also made clear to him that Remy would not be very approving.   
  
Assuming Scott ever found Remy.  
  
**  
  
Cheryl Knight did not cry often. She was strong, and very few things actually broke her down to tears. Her boyfriend of only eight months but whom she already loved more than anything was missing. And so now, she buried her face in her fluffy down pillow (which without Remy she would never have been able to afford) as tears streamed down her face. Her chest heaved against the mattress as she tried to swallow her racking sobs but it was no use. He'd been gone without a sign for three days now, never had she gone more than a couple hours without hearing his voice, and now...three days. Three long, grueling, tedious days she told herself she would not cry, he would be back any second. But when she went to put on the diamond engagement ring he'd given her only a week before that she was forced to keep in her jewelry box during the day, it was like a dam inside her soul had just given out, sending forth an array of emotions to come pouring through her.  
  
She flipped over on her back and stared long and hard at the spectacular stone that glittered on her ring finger. "Gawd, it is beautiful," she muttered.  
  
"Of course it is. Remy only buy de best for my Rogue."  
  
Cher nearly flew off her bed at the sound of his voice and the pet name he used for her. "Remy!" She screamed and went running to where he stood by her door, leaping gleefully in his arms and showering his face with kisses. He laughed and cupped her chin to plant a lasting kiss on her mouth before setting her back down on the ground.  
  
She gazed up at him with wide eyes, absently stroking the stubble on his cheeks. "Where have yah been?" She asked, too happy to see him alive to be very upset.  
  
Remy's eyes sparkled in response, causing Cher to go weak in the knees. "You know me, Rogue. Always in and out."   
  
"Really, Remy. Ah've been worried sick!"   
  
The Cajun's smile dissolved and he slowly got serious- a rare thing for him so Cher paid close attention. "Somet'in has happened, chere."  
  
"Something has always happened with you Remy." She replied.  
  
"No, Rogue. Dis is serious dis time. Somet'in big has happened and I had to lay low for a while, still do, actually."  
  
Cher's brows furrowed in concern. "Well, what is it Remy? Can Ah help?"   
  
He took a longing look at her, clad in a sea green nightgown that clung to her curves, and reveled in her love for a fleeting moment before shaking his head. "No, Rogue. Not dis time. I do need you to do one t'ing for me, dough. Pack. You need to be ready to leave de minute I come back if it comes to dat."  
  
"Pack!?" Cher exclaimed. "Why? Where are we goin'?"   
  
"We may have to move down to New Orleans if t'ings don't calm down- me, you, and Jeannie. Remy gotta place dere." He gave her a moment to absorb it. "I told you dis was serious, chere."  
  
"Why don't you tell me what's goin' on, Remy?" Rogue laced her fingers behind his broad neck.   
  
"Can't, Rogue. Just be ready for Remy, okay?" He held her close to his own body, instantly remembering how he hated her absence so much through the last three days of laying low.   
  
A smile spread across her mouth. "You know Ah'll go anywhere with you swamp rat." And with that, she pulled him down to her and claimed his mouth with her own. He willingly accepted, wrapping his toned arms around her waist and letting himself melt into her embrace.   
  
Remy never saw himself as a man in love before. The only things he cared about were him, his sister, him, his business, and him. Then, as fate should have it, he met Cher. It had been eight months ago almost to the day; he saw her walking home one night with an armful of brown, paper grocery bags. He asked if she needed help, more so just to strike up a conversation with the beautiful thing than really assist. He was taken aback entirely when she politely refused his offer since women hardly ever refused Remy. He persisted until they were not five feet from her door and she finally agreed. She stole his heart that night; he hadn't seen it since.  
  
Remy had other people he still had to see, and he knew he couldn't stay much longer at Cher's. He tried to gently tug her away from him, but found his arms would not obey his command. Besides, she could be very persuasive when nibbling his ear...  
  
  
Ending Notes(because I NEVER shut-up!)-So, how goes it so far? The direction taking a turn for the worse or better? Again, either way, drop a line. Logan will be a recurring character, but not used so prominently as the original four. Anybody else you want to see? I* will squeeze them in...for you. 'Cause you are the wind beneath my wi...Oh, um. Sorry, got a li'l carried away.  



	3. ch.3

  
  
Disclaimer: Yea right! I WISH! Nope, don't own a thing.  
  
HELPFUL notes: I don't understand the stock market. Nobody knows where Remy's been the last three days or why he left, not even Rogue. Most of you can probably figure out 'what', but I doubt 'why.' And don't worry, anyone that dropped in a line saying they'd like to see someone, I already got them in the works so don't sweat it if they're not in this chapter. OH! And thanks to all you guys and dolls that dropped a review this way. 'Preciate it!  
  
  
NYC  
  
  
Jean White had been crying too when she received a knock at her door. She glanced at the clock perched on her nightstand; the hands read one-thirty-nine. She rubbed her bleary eyes and slowly padded to the door.   
  
"Scott!" She said. Sure enough, there he stood in the doorway of her penthouse, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking as if he suddenly regretted even coming. She unconsciously clutched the fabric of the silk, white robe her brother had bought for her one year for the holidays.   
  
Scott had to catch his breath. That thing she was wearing clung to her curves, and God she had a plentiful supply. She looked like some sort of angel with a white light pouring forth from behind her, reflecting off her scarlet tresses and cheekbones. His gaze traveled up to her eyes, and they were red and puffy.  
  
"Have you been crying?" His voice sounded more concerned than he had meant it to.  
  
She smiled at his sincerity despite herself and mustered the will to nod. "Yes." Her celestial blue eyes got a distant look. "I miss him," was all she said quietly.  
  
Summers again felt a twinge of rage toward this Remy guy he had yet to even meet. Any guy that had the nerve to do this to his sister, especially to a sister like this who loved and was genuinely worried for him, had to be a first rate shmut.   
  
Unknowingly, Scott had encircled her small frame with his arms and was letting her cry on his shoulder. He knew it was one of the worst things he could do, being a detective and all. When you were in this line of work you followed certain rules, and rule number one: never, EVER get involved with the clients. At that point in time though, Scott pushed that vital piece of information to the back of his head and succumbed to the little voice that said he didn't have a chance against her.  
  
He stayed for almost forty-five minutes, talking about anything and everything with her over blueberry tea. He tried desperately not to hang onto her every word, not to get too attached, to stay as clinical as he could get considering he let her cry on his shoulder, but he just couldn't. She enthralled him, plain as that, and slowly, eventually, he came to accept the cold fact.  
  
"But that wasn't as fun as the time Remy took me floating down a lazy Mississippi river." Her voice dripped with wistfulness.  
  
"Mississippi, really? That's where my secretary is from."   
  
Jean's heart fell and she nearly panicked, but instead of falling to her knees and confessing everything, she simply choked out, "Really?"  
  
"Yea, Cher. Heh," He began to chuckle at the thought of the spunky Southerner. "She's quite a pistol, but lays it on real thick with that down home charm if you know what I'm saying."  
  
Jean just smiled weakly and asked Scott to recount an old detective story for her.  
  
It wasn't until about two-thirty that Scott decided it was high time he up and left. Jean walked him to the door, thanking him for coming and telling her Remy was definitely in the city. Surprisingly enough, that little piece of information relieved Jean immensely, considering her brother's many residents.   
  
At the door, Scott couldn't bring himself to leave. He turned to drink in the sight of her one last time, causing her to blush under his devouring gaze. Despite his searing stare, Jean did not feel in the least bit uncomfortable. On the contrary, she felt as if her stomach had just unleashed a swarm of wild butterflies. Her blood pulsed as he tentatively stepped closer and wordlessly rested a hand on her cheek, barely brushing his rough thumb over her petal soft lips. She swallowed a gasp as electricity shot through her body from the contact.  
  
The voice in Scott's head that quickly went from pestering to agreeable screamed at him to kiss her. Jean's mouth had always been a source of weakness for him, somewhat like his Achilles' heel. He was convinced there had never been such a maddening mouth since Eve.  
  
Unfortunately for Scott, his conscience was prepared to fight to the death. A faint sense of obligation stirred in him, of duty. If he kissed her, it could ruin the case. It would be a stamp of his affection for her that he would never be able to take back. And then, what if he didn't ever find the Remy guy? She could very well never want to see his face again if he failed her in this one thing.  
  
The moment hung in the air around them, time graciously standing still until a decision was made. Jean breathed in short breaths, unsure of what to do, what he was going to do, or what would happen if either of them did anything. What if Remy ever found out? Jean had a feeling Scott would conveniently never want to see her again if her brother found out; it would not be the first time it happened.   
  
Scott's mind was near delirious with her intoxicating presence and his willpower could take it no more. With one swift movement of thoughtless passion he captured her rosebud mouth with his own hungry one as if he were starving for her soul. She melted into him as he buried one hand in her mass of ruby ringlets and placed the other one on the small of her back. She combed her fingers through his hair, sending spills down the detective's back.  
  
And then, somehow, in the intuition all siblings have, Jean's stomach dropped at the sense that her brother knew or would somehow soon find out about this. She couldn't do this to Scott; he was a good man. It would only bring them both grief if she let this continue because God only knew when she, her brother, and now Cher(the newest member of their little brigade), would be packing their bags and accounts and settling elsewhere- Vegas, Los Angeles, New Orleans, they all blended together after a while.   
  
Hastily, almost violently, Jean wrenched herself apart from Scott's sweet embrace and all but pushed him through the still open door and into the narrow hallway. "I can't do this," she muttered.  
  
"What's the matter? What's wrong?" Scott sputtered, still catching his breath.  
  
She shook her head. "Nothing, I...We shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry. Good night." She reached for the door to shut it but Scott intervened with his arm.  
  
"Why? Was it something I did?" He tried to keep the note of hurt from his voice.  
  
"No, no, not at all. It's me; I can't do this. You don't want to do this, Scott. You don't want to be in a relationship with someone like me. I'm so sorry." And with that, she closed the door, the last thing she saw being Scott's bewildered and, sadly enough, hurt expression.  
  
Detective Summers rose his hand to knock again, but soon lowered it in favor of better judgment. He stared for a moment at the gold numbers hanging on the white door before him. He was positive that if you listened hard enough, you could hear the brass numbers laughing at him. Ah well, he thought. You knew she'd bring you nothin' but pain, and now what's happened? She never wants to see your ugly mug again. On that note, he stumbled to the elevator and started for home.  
  
On the other side of the door, Jean sank against the wall and cried, silently cursing her brother for his line of work and at the same time missing him like crazy.   
  
Jean jumped nearly two feet from her tucked position on the floor at the tapping at her window. She shot her head up and clumsily brushed soaked red strands from her tear-streaked face. She peered out her window only to see pitch black.  
  
Suddenly, a figure slammed itself against the glass, causing Jean to scream and scramble to a standing position. Her heart pounded violently against her chest as she considered possibilities concerning the Manhattan Massacre and the murder that took place not two buildings down from hers. The penthouse was silent again, until BAM!  
  
Insistently, a hand beat against the glass, ringing through the whole apartment. Jean didn't notice though; she was hurriedly making her way to the window in order to open it and let him in. By now she had seen who it was- her brother.  
  
"Remy! Oh my God, you're alive, thank God." In a spur of conflicting emotion she slapped his broad shoulder. "Where the hell have you been?" She exclaimed as he leaned against his sister for support in climbing down from the windowsill.   
  
"Everywhere, kid." Remy almost laughed. Not quite the arrival he'd hoped for, but after all, Jean was used to this. Rogue was still new to it and just thankful to see him alive. "But yeah, Remy's alive. What? You surprised or somet'ing, Red?" Once he settled himself on the plush white carpet he stared long and hard at Jean. She knew what was coming.  
  
"How much did you see?"   
  
"Everyt'ing. Remy saw everyt'ing." She swallowed. He was not happy. "Who is he?"  
  
"Nobo-" She stopped herself. Even though she had turned around so he couldn't see her blotchy face, she knew he was giving her a 'don't lie to me like that' look. "His name is Detective Scott Summers. He's the one Cher works for. After you turned up missing, we...I hired him. He doesn't know Cher and you are...together. We didn't think he'd approve if his secretary was emotionally involved in one of his cases." She paused and didn't even wait for him to give the order. "I'll tell him his services are no longer needed tomorrow." She sounded almost bitter, and Remy was a bit taken aback.   
  
"Alright, dat's fine. But what was he doing here, Jeannie?"  
  
Jean spun around. "Didn't I correct the mistake, Remy? I pushed him away, sent him out, didn't I? I slipped up for one moment, I'm sorry."  
  
"Yes, Red, you did de right t'ing. Remy not mad at you, I'm mad at him. Remy knows what men have in mind when dey come to a woman's apartment dis late at night. And Jean, you know dat you shouldn't get too close to anyone like dat. What happens when we need to leave de city again? What would you say to him?"   
  
Jean sniffed in response. It was true, though. Getting close to Scott, to anyone, meant trouble. Always had. But it was different this time. The thought of leaving Scott hurt more than it usually did when she was forced to leave any acquaintances. Little did Jean know it would be so soon.  
  
Remy cleared his throat uncertainly. Jean's head shot up, knowing her brother too well to brush that off as a casual cough. "What?"  
  
"Dere's one more t'ing, chere. I need you to pack our accounts and be ready to leave when needed."  
  
Jean nearly fainted. "Wh...? Why?"  
  
"Somet'in has happened. Somet'in big." His voice was solemn; Jean knew something horrible had happened. "Remy can't tell you what it is, not now anyway, but you have to trust me, and be ready to leave."  
  
She was dizzy. No, not so soon. It had only been about a year, that wasn't long enough. Not after she just met Scott. "Where," was all she could say.  
  
"The house in Orleans." He replied simply.  
  
"Have you told Cher?"   
  
He nodded, "Yeah." He shrugged, but didn't dare grin. After all, his sister was a redhead- dynamite temper. "She's okay wit it."  
  
Of course, Jean thought. Cher doesn't know what it's like yet. She's still new to it; give her a couple moves in six years. Jean pitied the woman who was in for quite a shock. Still, she looks like she could be happy anywhere as long as Remy is with her. Jean smiled briefly at that fleeting thought. She was happy for the couple, and remembered being pleasantly surprised when her brother told her he had actually fallen in love.  
  
"You're not going to tell me what's happened, are you?" Jean said.  
  
He shook his head, but didn't say anything. Jean sighed but accepted it. He had made up his mind.  
  
The two chatted for a while longer before Remy made his way out. "Now Red, be a good girl and tell me what you're going to do for your ole brot'er Remy."  
  
"I'm going to tell Scott he's no longer needed-"  
  
"With no explanation as to why," He cut in.  
  
"Right, I won't tell him why. Then I'm going to tie up loose ends at the banks, transfer our accounts, and pack necessities around the house." She paused. "But it's not sure we're going to have to leave, right? I mean, it's still up in the air?"  
  
"Yea, chere, but..." He sighed, "Just pack, kay?" She nodded silently.  
  
Remy tilted his head. "Dat's my girl. Now how 'bout a kiss." The siblings exchanged kisses on both cheeks and Remy crawled out the window the way he came in. "Bye, Red. I'll be back."  
  
  
**  
  
Remy weaved through the alleys, sticking as close to the shadows as one could without looking suspicious. He stopped at a thick steel door built into the brick wall and knocked twice.  
  
"Password," Someone rasped on the other side.   
  
"Blackbird."  
  
The door lurched open with a swift creak to reveal a large, brawny man. "Hey, Rasputin." Remy said. The man nodded stiffly and pointed down a corridor, knowing already who Remy came to see and where to find him. "Thanks mon amie."  
  
Remy reached an open room at the end with three men gathered around a small table in the center. Logan sat in the middle. When the Canadian saw him he dismissed the other two businessmen and gestured for Remy to take a seat.  
  
"How goes it, Cajun?" He asked gruffly.  
  
He shrugged, "It goes."  
  
Logan lit a cigar. "Where ya' been? People have been asking for you."  
  
"Really, well dat lifts a man's self-esteem." He paused and accepted a smoke. "Who?"  
  
"A detective. We go back, his name is Summers."  
  
Remy nodded. "I know dat one. I saw him just about half an hour ago in Jeannie's apartment. Couldn't keep his filthy paws off her. She kicked him out, dough. Smart girl- my sister. She learns from her brot'er." Remy grinned. "Red hired him to find me, I guess. Cher works for him."  
  
Logan's features scrunched in confusion. "Cher?"  
  
"Yea, Cher. Oh, dat's right, I didn't tell you. Remy's a soon-to-be married man, Logan." He leaned back in his chair.  
  
"Really? Heh. Congrats, kid, that's great. She must be really somet'in to tie a cowboy like you down."  
  
"Yea, but ahh... she's worth it." Remy slipped into a momentary reminisce. "I'm tellin' you, she's got this sweet li'l accent, a body that makes Remy wanna beg, and eyes that look like jewels I've never seen before. And we both know I've seen enough to compare." The two men smiled. "So when're you going to get hitched, Logan?"  
  
The stout man snorted. "You know me, Cajun, never the time."  
  
"Liar. I like you Logan; I wouldn't mind seein' you wit' Jeannie, even. You'd keep her head in the right spot and I'd have to be blind not to see the looks you give her."  
  
Logan shook his head. "No good. You know the kind of life I live. I wouldn't bring a girl like your sister into it, no matter how I feel about her. She'd be miserable."  
  
Remy smirked. "Well anyway, I came to tell ya' Remy is going to be lying low again for a while. The cops are after me, for murder dis time, so I need to hide it out for a little bit. I'm just askin' that ya' watch over t'ings while I'm gone. I'll be at the Nightcrawler. Keep an eye on my girls- Cher and Jean. Can you do dat for Remy, mon amie?"  
  
Logan assured him he could and with that, Remy was off again- this time not to be seen again for a long time coming.   
  
  
**  
  
Detective Summers offered Eric Lensherr a seat in front of his desk. "What can I do for you, Eric?" The two men were mutual friends; Scott had been known to buy stock from Eric and his deceased business partner, Charles.   
  
"The usual, Detective. I will pay you one thousand dollars to find a man by the name of Remy White."  
  
Scott went an unnatural shade of white. One grand: it was a lot of money.   
  
"I know him. Or of him, at least." Scott said.  
  
"Yes, he's quite...renowned in the smuggling business if I'm correct." His voice was dulcet and slightly accented. German maybe? "I believe he killed my business associate, Charles. I trust you've heard."  
  
"Yes, I'm sorry about that, Eric." He pondered ephemerally. "I will see what I can do. It shouldn't be very hard. After all, aren't the police searching for him, too?"  
  
"That's right, but they can do nothing. He will outwit them, I'm sure of it. You, however, I have faith in."  
  
Scott straightened. "Are you aware that White is also a main suspect for the Manhattan Massacre?"  
  
Eric's forehead creased in concentration, "I think I've heard of it. Refresh my memory."   
  
"Six women- dead. It's all over the headlines; they say he's unstoppable...whoever it is."  
  
Outside of the office, Scott's secretary nearly fell out of her seat.  
  
Lensherr rolled his eyes, annoyed. "I wouldn't put it below that cold-blooded killer." He finished tightly, rising to leave. "I will contact you tomorrow." He walked out the open office door, giving a small smile and tip of his hat to Cher.  
  
Cher chewed her pencil nervously. Omigawd! She thought. Remy is suspected of killing all those women? And that man? He doesn't even know them! She grabbed her purse and headed out the door, muttering something about going for a cup of coffee to Scott. She had to find Remy.  
  
  
  
OOOoooh! So what'd everybody think? C'mon, hit it to me, I can take it. Good or bad (I won't lie to you, I prefer good, but constructive criticism is always appreciated...I guess:), drop me a review. Should I go on with it still? Or has this chapter just TOTALLY killed the interest? Lemme know, yo!   
  
Oh, and if you're interested enough that I do right another chapter, we will FINALLY find out just what Remy has and hasn't done. What do YOU think is going on?  
  
And finally, tell me if you want to see someone in it! I'll try my best to squeeze them in! I've already got lots of your suggestions in the works!  



	4. ch.4

Disclaimer: I just don't own them, okay?  
  
Notes: I used a review from Jean1 to decide how to have Storm join the party. I hope everybody's pleased with how things are going and if not, tell me and I'll try and make some adjustments if necessary. As always, REVIEW! What could it hurt, eh?  
  
  
  
NYC  
  
  
Cher's heels clicked consistently on the pavement as she dodged potholes and weaved trashcans. The alley was dark and, not surprisingly, unnerving to the young Mississippi native.   
  
Yep, the door was right where Remy said it would be. The place was dirty, dark, and smoky, but Remy said there was a man here that would help her if she needed it.   
  
The Russian just shy of seven feet tall led her down a corridor and into a small, dark room except for the blaring light hanging above the table in the center. A poker game was taking place between four visored men. All looked up at Cher's entrance, blinking, unmoving, waiting. She announced that she was there to see a man named Logan and the men dispersed, all but one.  
  
"I'm Logan," he said after the others had all gone. He set the deck of cards down on the table and began rolling the sleeves that revealed forearms nearly the size of Cher's legs down.   
  
She swallowed nervously. "Mah name's Cheryl Knight. Remy told me Ah should come to yah if there's-"  
  
"That's right," he intervened. "Nice to finally meet you, Cher. What can I do for ya'?"  
  
She wrung her hands, embarrassed. "Ah need...to know where Remy is raght now. It's very important."  
  
Logan rested his elbows on the table. "I'd like to help you, darlin', but if Remy doesn't want to be found right now, I think it's best we respect his decision."  
  
"But he needs to heuh this. It's urgent!"  
  
"Listen, I would, but I just can't. Look kid, it's not like he's doing this for his health, he's doin' it 'cause if anyone sees him with you, or his sister, or anyone else he cares about- even though I think I just listed everybody- whoever's after him will know right where to hit him where it hurts." Logan exhaled a ring of cigar smoke. "They'll come after the ones he loves, that's the way it always is darlin'. He's doin' it to keep you and Red safe." Cheryl took a few cautious steps toward the table he sat at. "Ah know, but you don't understand. This is important." Her voice was pleading. "It's life or death." She clasped her hands in the classic begging position. "Please, mistah. Ah know he told yah where he is. Please, please tell me."  
  
Logan pursed his lips in disgust. How pitiful...he was actually going to tell her.  
  
**  
  
Bells clinging against the glass door announced Scott's entrance into the crisp, clean Barber Shop, complete with swirling striped poles of red and blue. He took a seat near two elderly gentlemen engaged in a game of checkers. The barber looked up from his current customer and waved the detective a hello. "Hey Slim! Hold on a sec, I'm almost finished up with this one."  
  
"Alright, Bobby." Scott liked Bobby Drake. About two years ago, the kid's father passed on- a good guy, owned the place since Scott was about knee high to a duck. Bobby inherited the place after that and had been running it since. He's a good kid- smart, hardworking, a real people person. His first order of business after moving in was learning every customers name and then quickly establishing nicknames.  
  
Detective Summers was less than surprised when he was immediately branded 'Slim.' It was a name that haunted him since his long, scrawny days at junior high. Well, maybe haunt was a little strong... no haunt was about right.  
  
A little bit later, Scott was settled comfortably in a chair, flannel sheet clasped behind his neck.  
  
"What am I doing here, Summers?"  
  
"A full out shampoo, cut, and shave."  
  
"What, you got a date or something? Who would date your ugly mug?" Bobby grinned and turned to the instruments laid out on his workplace.  
  
"No, no. The mood just strikes me, I guess."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, that's what they all say, eh fellas?" Bobby tossed over his shoulder. The two men playing checkers gave a collective grunt. "So, tell me, Scottie, I gotta know. Blonde or brunette?"   
  
A smile curled at the corners of his mouth at the thought of the actual response to that question. "Don't worry about it, Bobby. Don't worry about anything." He replied with a face as still as possible so Bobby could continue lathering his cheeks and chin.  
  
"I never worry, Slim. Never."  
  
It was true, though. The sandy-blonde headed boy-just-recently-made-man worried very little if at all, as shown by the seemingly permanent twinkle in his bright blue eyes.  
  
Bobby continued the cut and shave quick and efficiently. All the while, Scott sat silent, lying to himself. He swore to his conscience that what he was doing was not to impress anyone, especially not Jean White. He didn't give a damn about the redheaded doll; she was nothing but painful trouble. Now, if only he could come to believe it, his problems would be solved.  
  
**  
  
Jean gazed at herself in the mirror, eyeing the newly bought, wide-brimmed hat perched upon her tomato red locks with a decisive eye. "Too big," she mumbled to herself, returning to her closet. "She rummaged through the array of hat boxes strewn about, finally picking up a white one with a matching silk ribbon tied across the center.  
  
She again approached the mirror, shifting her head from left to right.  
  
"I like it" Came a gruff voice from behind her.  
  
She gasped and spun around, clutching her chest in fright.  
  
"Logan!" She cried. He sat leaning against the headboard, grinning at her reaction.   
  
She threw the hat at him, which he easily deflected with a chuckle.  
  
"What! I can't help it you're not observant enough to hear someone sneak into the place."  
  
She opened her round mouth to protest, but nodded in agreement instead. "Is there a reason you're here, or shall I just shut my mouth and count my blessings?" She positioned herself at the foot of her bed, absently gathering fragments of tissue paper and price tags.   
  
"Actually, I came to ask the age old question." Logan moved to where she sat on the bed and slid off of it, landing in a kneeling position at her feet, arms resting on either side of her. "Jean...what's your brother done this time?"  
  
The redhead groaned and fell back onto the bed. "Arrrgh! I don't know, he won't tell me, either." She covered her face with her hands. "On top of that he's pretty sure we'll have to move again, soon."  
  
Logan stood up. "Really? Where?"  
  
"A place we have in New Orleans. It's nice and all, but I'm quite fond of this place myself."  
  
"Fond of the place, or the people?"  
  
Jean removed her hands from her face to look up at him. "My, my Mister Logan. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were implying something."  
  
He turned from where he stood looking over her window balcony to stare her in the eyes. He was almost impressed when she met his gaze with her own fathomless blues, unflinching. God, the woman had more nerve than half the men he did business with. To not shrink under this man's gaze was truly an accomplishment in itself. Perhaps that's why Logan was forced to agree when Remy mentioned the looks directed toward Jean from him. No, absolutely not. This broad's life would be nothing but ruined if he were to bring her into his world.  
  
"Remy said he saw that Detective Summers in here the other night." He scanned the room unconsciously, as if he expected to find Scott under the bed, and therefore have to kill him.  
  
"Yep," she said simply.   
  
Logan cringed; she wasn't going to meet him half way on this one. "Jean, you don't know him like I know him. Give him one chance and I'll bet he'd have your brother thrown into the slammer before you could blink those pretty li'l eyes. He's no good."  
  
Jean smiled sweetly. "I had no idea you two were so close. What do you know about him?"   
  
"What do YOU know about him?"  
  
Her eyes flashed a dangerous shade of sapphire. "I know more about him in the few days we've known each other than I know about you in all the time I've known you. Remy and I don't even know your last name!"  
  
"There's a reason for that, sweetheart!" He almost yelled.  
  
"Really? What?!"  
  
He clenched frustrated fists. "To keep genuinely good people like you and your brother safe...you wouldn't understand!"  
  
"Fine!" She screamed.  
  
"Alright!" He hollered, stomping to her door and swinging it open. He had every intention of storming out and not turning around for anything, even if she begged. That is, until she uttered one word.  
  
"Wait."  
  
The Canadian was rendered powerless. Disgraceful, he thought. He'd said it before and he'd preach it 'til he was six feet under: women are workers of Satan. He spun on his heel to face her. She was standing now, leaning against her bedpost, big eyes welling up with tears. Damn it, his heart dropped.  
  
"I don't want us to part upset at each other." She choked out, determined not to weep pitifully in front of the toughest man she knew.  
  
He shut the door with a soft click, smoothed his black-with-white-stripes suit with a dignified sweep of the hand, and slowly walked to where she stood.  
  
"I know you're going to do what you want to do, and that's continue to see this detective, as much as I disapprove. Just be safe, Jeannie. That's all I'm saying."  
  
"I will. Thank you."  
  
He raised a thick, black eyebrow. "For what?"  
  
"For being you, for looking out for me and Remy and Cher. What would we do without you, Mister Logan?" She grinned and threw her arms around his broad neck.  
  
He returned the hug, forcing himself to ignore her irresistible womanly scent of roses coupled with freshly fallen snow, chastising himself for reveling in the feel of her slim body under his palms.  
  
Jean stepped away and smiled up at him.  
  
"Take care of yourself."  
  
He assured her he would and left the apartment.  
  
**  
  
Jean flagged a cab and slid into the backseat, smiling politely at the driver. He was a colossal black man that towered over the steering wheel, his body cramped and just hardly fitting in the car's seat.   
  
"Where to, ma'am?" He called over his shoulder, pulling off the curb.  
  
"Sixth street, please."  
  
He glided into the flow of traffic, weaving through other cars as if it were an obstacle course or a game. Jean's stomach clenched in momentary fear at his near head on collision with another car, only to quickly dodge it and resume his position on the right side of the road, five cars now behind them. He slowed at a traffic jam up the road.  
  
"Oh, for Christ's sake, what the hell is going on here?" His voice sounded as if it were on the brink of control. Jean hoped it held out.  
  
The tension permeated through the air for a few long seconds. Jean jumped when he suddenly slammed on the horn with his fist. "C'mon! Let's move it, people!" He screamed. "Oh, what! Who do you think you are? Yeah, okay, sure buddy. OH! OH! That's not right...my FOOT'S about to have a meeting with YOUR ass!!" He clenched the steering wheel, his blood obviously boiling. "Oh really!? I will PUNCH you in the FACE!"  
  
Jean's mouth went dry, for a man two cars ahead of them got out of his car, slammed his door shut, and stomped right toward Jean's cab, fully intent on having words with her cab driver.   
  
He turned to face Jean. "Sorry, this'll only take a second." He reached under his seat and pulled out the biggest gun Jean had ever seen. He noticed she had caught sight of the word 'Bishop' engraved on his pride and joy. "It was an old war name." He explained proudly, tenderly caressing the barrel. She nodded dumbly.   
  
He cocked the gun, the action gaining a satisfying cha-chick from the weapon. 'Bishop' slammed his own door behind him, quickly waved his gun in front of his harasser and screaming a string of obscenities even Jean had never heard growing up with some of the worst thugs in the city, and made his way back toward the taxi after the other man cowered in fear, running for the safety of his car.   
  
'Bishop' chucked the gun into the passenger seat, slumped into his own, and muttered a few curse words under his breath that Jean thought could quite possibly make a wolverine blush before regaining full composure and smiling back at Jean from the rearview mirror. "Sorry, miss. No charge for that, of course." And at that, he put the car back in motion and brought Jean, surprisingly enough, safely in front of Scott's office building.  
  
Jean thanked him and hastily shoved crumpled bills in his hands, stumbling away from the car as quickly as possible, her adrenaline still pumping from the near-death experience. She had come across bad cab drivers before. After all, it was New York. But never had she run into one like that.  
  
Jean watched Scott for a moment through the crack in the door to his office she made for her head to poke in. He was shifting through a mass of papers and photographs that were scattered across his desktop and didn't even notice her presence until she cleared her throat.  
  
Detective Summers' head shot up at the sound and it's unmistakable owner. "Jean!" He was utterly startled. This was one person he wasn't expecting to see for a while considering last nights crash and burn.   
  
"Hi Scott. I came by to apologize for what happened yesterday." She draped her mink shoulder wrap and hat over the arm of the client chair and strode passed him to peer out the window. "I don't know what came over me."  
  
She was lying. Of course she knew what came over her: the fear that Remy would find out something, she didn't know what, but something was going on between her and this detective. But now that he knew, and they were moving anyway, she wanted to spend every waking moment with this man for some sudden reason.   
  
"It's okay," he said, slightly uncomfortable and even more unsure of where they stood as far as a relationship went, now. After all, they did kiss, didn't they?   
  
She broke the awkward silence by walking back to where he sat and perching herself on the edge of his desk, facing him. She reached behind her and swiped his hat sitting behind her, placing it on her head. "How does it look?" She asked, holding her arms out for him to see.  
  
He chuckled and lifted the tip to see her eyes through the over-sized thing. "It's a little big for you, I think."  
  
She waved a hand dismissively. "Nonsense, it's just right." They shared a smile and she tugged at a dwindling string from her skirt. His eyes wandered to her slightly parted thighs for a fleeting moment before coming back up to make contact with hers. She blushed furiously and crossed her legs. Jean leaned back on her hands, "So, detective, where shall we go?"  
  
His features took on a curious look. "For what?"  
  
"For the drink you're going to buy me of course!" She said matter-of-factly.   
  
"Oh yeah! That drink. Ummm, what say you to a little place I know down on Alexander Street?"   
  
She grinned. "I say I don't know the place you speak of."  
  
"More the reason for me to take you then, eh?"  
  
She hopped off his desk. "I'll get my coat."  
  
**  
  
The club had a mellow, toned down feel to it, complete with dimmed lights and jazz droning in the background. The two found a small table in a corner lit by a tiny candle flickering weakly in the center.   
  
"Oh Scott! The place is beautiful, I love it!" Jean exclaimed, accepting the chair he pulled out for her. "What did you say the name of it was, again?"  
  
" Elements. It's a quaint little place, but the food is great and the entertainment's even better."   
  
"Entertainment?"  
  
He unfolded a menu. "Yeah, they usually have a singer or a band...something of that sort. But tonight, an old friend of mine happens to be taking center stage: Ororo Munroe. She's a wonderful performer; I can't wait 'til you see her."  
  
Their approaching waiter briefly interrupted the conversation. She was a young Asian girl, twenty-three at most, with a black crop top hairstyle, giving her the appearance of an evil pixi from hell.   
  
"Hello, I'm Julie, I'll be your server for the night. Can I get you two something to drink?" She was perky and enthusiastic, probably a small town girl trying to make it in the big time and working as a waitress to pay the rent. Scott had seen a hundred of them, at least, and always made sure to tip them a little extra.  
  
"I'll have a scotch and soda, please." Scott said.  
  
She scribbled the order down on her notepad. "And for your wife?"  
  
Scott and Jean blushed. "I'll have a dry martini." She said through a smile.  
  
Julie placed the pencil behind her ear and the pad in the pocket of her black uniform bottom. "Alright, I'll be right back with that." She spun on her heel and left the table, a bounce in her step. Scott half scoffed, half pitied her. So naïve, so full of life and opportunities. Ah, to be young.   
  
"So, Detective Summers, what do you recommend?" Jean asked over her menu.   
  
"Let's see, I always get the steak and shrimp myself, but there's a special tonight."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Yep, pretty ladies such as yourself get anything they want free, courtesy of yours truly."  
  
"Is that just a fancy way of saying you're paying?" He nodded. "Aw, thank you kind sir."  
  
Julie took their order and the club started to pick up around eight. A crowd shuffled in through the entrance, all to see the infamous Ororo Munroe perform.   
  
Scott stole a glance at Jean. She was staring intently at the stage, waiting for the lights to let up and the show to begin. He tried to avoid it, but it was useless: his heart skipped a beat. God, there was no two ways around it; she was beautiful. Her crimson strands pulled back in a classic up-do, her milky skin casting off a faint glow in the candlelight, and that damned ruby-red pout that weakened him.   
  
She caught his eye from the corner of hers and turned to face him, smiling uncertainly at the undivided attention. He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat.  
  
The two looked back to the stage. Jean wondered how her heart could thump so violently and he couldn't hear it. This man was such a good guy and she was truly being selfish for leading him on like this, he being totally oblivious to the truth. When she told Remy she would tell Scott he was no longer needed, she had meant it. But as soon as she saw him that morning, she decided one more day couldn't hurt. She wanted to spend as much time as possible with him before she would be forced to move again. No, 'forced' was too strong. She had every bit of free will as the next person, and Remy always made that clear to her. 'You don't have to come wit' Remy, Red.' He always said it, and it only served in making her feel guilty for even second guessing her brother and his 'career choices.' She could just imagine Scott's face when he discovered her and Cher gone, never to be seen by him again.   
  
Stop it, Jean, you're sick, she told herself. Just enjoy the precious little time you have left with him.   
  
The lights went up on the stage to reveal a sleek, black grand piano with blood red roses scattered across it and an accompanist sitting on the bench, clad in a full black tuxedo and gloves. A spotlight suddenly beamed down on the center of the piano top and a tall, black woman, seemingly having appeared out of nowhere, was propped on one elbow in the direct center of it. Her crystal blue eyes stared straight ahead and her platinum hair fell across her shoulders like layers of pure snow. The royal blue sequence of her sparkling dress complemented her mocha brown skin splendidly.  
  
The crowd fell silent as she cradled the microphone; all except Jean. The redhead leaned into Scott, he meeting her half way, and placed her mouth to his ear, whispering, "A friend, huh?"   
  
He could hear the smile in her voice and he chuckled too, before whispering back, "Yes. A good friend." He felt a smug satisfaction at her jealousy, even if it she was kidding.  
  
Ororo's rich voice enveloped the room like fine silk. She had the audience in the palm of her hand by the time she finished her song and she was well aware. She responded to their uproarious cheering with a wave of the hand and flashing a dazzling smile.  
  
  
Later that night, Scott and Jean were giggling like teenagers in front of Jean's penthouse door. She leaned against the wall and tipped her head back. "God, I had a wonderful night. Thank you."   
  
"Anytime," he said. "In fact, how does tomorrow sound?" A hopeful smile played at his lips.  
  
"It sounds...perfect." Pause. "You want to come in for some coffee or something?"  
  
He accepted and pretty soon they were inside her apartment splitting a bottle of champagne. They sat cuddled together on her couch near the fireplace where Scott had built a roaring fire.   
  
"What are you thinking about?" Jean asked Scott from where her head rested on his shoulder. He tried to suppress a laugh but to no avail. "Don't laugh!" She exclaimed in mock hurt as she sat up and set her champagne glass down on the coffee table. He followed suit.  
  
"No, no, I'm not laughing at you!"  
  
"Oh really? Then pray tell, why were you laughing?"  
  
"I was laughing because... I'm happy." He finished, knowing full well how corny it sounded the minute it left his mouth, but not caring. In fact, if anything, the detective was confused. Wasn't this the same woman that pushed him out of her apartment the night before after he mustered up the courage to kiss her? And now, he sat on her couch, his arm strapped across her small frame and sipping champagne. Scott decided to brush it off and count his blessings; he wasn't complaining.   
  
"Happy? Alert the media! What has made Mister Serious so happy that he, gasp, laughs!?"   
  
He didn't answer. Instead he took her hands in his own, and as opposed to jerking them away (the reaction he expected), she gently stroked his fingers in return. Wordlessly, they leaned into each other and their lips met. Fire shot through her body. There was no way she was turning back, now. She wanted him, all of him, surrounding her, breathing her, completing her. God, it ached. She deepened the kiss by climbing into his lap and pressing harder against his mouth with her own.  
  
Scott could barely contain his emotion. Thoughts charged through his head like a freight train. Her kiss was like a symphony waltzing in his mouth, he never wanted to stop. She tasted like ripe raspberries and white rain. He wrapped his arms behind her back as she lost her hands in his brunette waves. She broke away from the kiss, out of breath and gasping. Scott took the opportunity to plant tantalizing kisses along the crook of her neck and collarbone. Once her attention was regained by that, she took his earlobe between her lips and nibbled provocatively. "Hows about we take this to my room?"  
  
Scott shuddered with desire and hoisted the two of them off the couch, her legs gripping his hips and ankles locking behind his back. He laid her onto the queen-sized bed and supported his weight over her, bringing his ravenous mouth down on her cherry pout to claim another heart-stopping kiss.  
  
**  
  
The Nightcrawler was a small, electric club where only the few elite and lucky made their way past the entrance. Cheryl sat at the bar and whipped out a slim cigarette, crossing her legs and peering around the room. A jazz quartet was setting the place ablaze with wicked notes and gin glasses clinked in toast one after the other. Suddenly, the bartender flashed a match before her and she held her smoke to it until it illuminated, nodding politely to him. She observed him through the small black veil hanging from the tip of her hat over her vibrant green eyes. He was not just handsome, but beautiful...like an angel. He had sharp, tan features like a Greek god and long blonde waves. Cher smiled to herself. Here she was being offered a light by a man that was definitely model material, and she couldn't even bring herself to look at him twice so in love and worried for Remy she was.   
  
"Excuse me, sir." She said, her accent thick as honey. "Ah was wondering if you might know where to find this man." She held out a worn, black-and-white photograph of her and Remy. He was behind her on a swing they had found hidden deep in a Mississippi forest, hanging sorrowfully from an old branch.  
  
The bartender looked as if he were about to nod but stopped himself. "Um, no, can't say I have."  
  
Cher looked at him quizzically. "No? Oh, c'mon sugah, he's expecting me. Ah know he's somewhere around heuh, so won't you be so kind as to tell me where?" Her eyes got a mesmerizing shade of green and she bore them into his own sea blue ones. Captivated, he said, "Oh, alright. I guess; follow me." He turned to lead but ran into something, or rather, someone.   
  
"No need, Warren."  
  
"Remy! There yah are, oh thank the Lawd! Ah have GOT to tell yah something!"   
  
Remy wordlessly took his fiancée by the hand and led her up a flight of winding stairs hidden behind the bar. The staircase opened up into a large private room, classically furnished and complete with cathedral ceilings.   
  
Cher wasn't interested in the room, though. She had to tell Remy he was a primary suspect for not one but seven murders! But the stern, displeasing look on his face told her he was less than ecstatic to see her there.  
  
"Cher, what are you doin' here? Didn't Remy tell you he would be back? You shouldn't be here, someone could have seen you come in!"   
  
Cheryl took a step toward him. "But Remy, ah have something very important you need to heuh! Would you just listen, yah stubborn swamprat!" She blew a disobedient strand of hair from her eyes with a frustrated humph.   
  
Remy weighed the decision for a second, then crossed his arms over his tight white tee shirt as if to say, 'I'm listening.'  
  
"Okay, Ah was at the office earlier and just happened to overhear..." Remy gave her a knowing look, "Alraght, Ah was eavesdropping when I heard this man, Lensherr Ah think his name was, asking Scott..." Remy's ears perked at the name as a thought dawned on him.  
  
"Scott! Cher, Jeannie did get around to telling him to stop the manhunt for this Cajun, didn't she?"  
  
Cher blinked her bright eyes, her mind overflowing with too many things at once. "What? No...not yet, not that Ah know of. Then again, Ah was out all day tryin' to find yoah butt!"  
  
"So you don't know...?"  
  
"No, Remy. Sugah, listen, you're missing mah point..." She opened her mouth to recount her story...again, when Remy suddenly interrupted her with,  
  
"How did you find me?"   
  
Cher nearly screamed at his lack of cooperation but answered the question anyway. "Logan, Ah asked Logan and he told me."  
  
Remy nodded, "Good. If it were anyone else, Remy would be worried. Logan's the only one I told."  
  
Cheryl grasped his shoulders and yanked his attention from wherever it was occupied. "Listen to me!! You are already being hunted down, and not JUST by Summahs!" She took a deep breath and lowered her voice considerably, taking a cautious glance around the spacious room. "The POLICE are after you, Remy. For a couple of things! They think yah killed this guy, uh, what was his name... he worked with that Lensherr guy. You know the company, they're business partners..." She snapped her fingers to recall the name.  
  
"Xavier," he offered.  
  
"Yes! That's the one. They think you killed that man, Remy! And, get this, they think you killed all those women that have been dying, lately. Oh, Gawd! Mah mind is drawing a blank tonight. What do they call it in the papers? Oh! The Manhattan Massacre! They think you did that, too! Why, Remy? Why do they think yah did all these things?"  
  
By now, Remy was cradling her near hysterical body, whispering soothing things in her hair as she clutched at his tee shirt and buried her face in his chest. "Shh. It's okay, my Rogue. Not'ing's going to happen to Remy, I promise. Not'ing's going to take me away from you, Cher, not'ing." He inhaled deeply, catching his last moment before having to confess the awful truth he kept harbored for so long. He pulled Cher away from him and stared into her wondrous eyes as green as the lush grass growing beside the bayous of Louisiana. She stared back innocently, so unaware and trusting. Remy's gut did a sickening flop.  
  
"Cher..." He began.  
  
"Yes, Remy."  
  
"Cher, I...I'm going to tell you somet'ing. It's de reason we might be movin' back to the south." Cher swallowed and nodded. Remy braced himself. Would she still love him after he told her this? She just had to, because if she didn't, Remy didn't think he'd be able to take it. "Remy did kill someone. I killed Xavier, but let me explain."  
  
Cheryl's jaw plunged, aghast. Needless to say, she had no words for the moment, so Remy took it upon himself to continue before she found words...words that could break his heart.   
  
He turned and clasped his hands behind his back, not able to look at her while he said this. As he wandered around the room in this position, he revealed to Cher the entire truth. "Xavier and Lensherr are dangerous men. I want you to know dat before I say anyt'ing more. Dey're regular customers of mine, usually buying de drugs, but every once in a while dey take a taste of de jewels and weapons, too. Anyways, dey requested a huge order of cocaine a couple weeks ago, a shipment so big Remy couldn't get it himself- we call dese kinds of orders Patients, because if dey're too big for Remy to get, de purchaser is going to have to be patient until it comes through. I had to have it hauled in from Boston wit' de next shipment, but even when de trucks finally made it here, dey're wasn't as much as I t'ought dere would be. Remy was still a few pounds short."   
He paused to light a cigarette, squinting in concentration as the flame greeted the tip. "So, I went to Xavier's apartment to tell him it was going to be another couple of days until he got his damned drugs because he'd have to wait for de next shipment to come in. What he and Lensherr wanted wit' dat many drugs, Remy has no idea. Probably intended on selling dem on de street demselves, make a little extra cash, I suppose. So anyway, I went to his place to bear de bad news, and next t'ing I know he's charging at me wit' a gun...right dere...in his apartment doorway! Remy had to t'ink fast, so I pulled out my own gun and told him if he made any moves, I'd have to use it. De damned fool didn't believe me. He rose his pistol like he was going to shoot Remy right point black!" Second of heavy silence. "What could Remy do, Cher? I had to stop him, he was going to kill Remy! I shot him, and when he still raised his gun at me, I shot him again. Remy had no idea Eric Lensherr was in de apartment. I just learned dat de ot'er day from de newspapers." He turned back to swallow Cher's reaction. She stood numbly, tears welling up in her sea-green pools. "I swear, Cher, Remy had no ot'er choice! He was a mad man; he wanted to kill me! What else could I do?"  
  
Cher finally found her speech. "Yah could have told the police the truth. Why didn't yah, sugah?" Her voice was stunned and almost unbelieving, but not angry or hateful, for both Remy was thankful.   
  
"You know de police, Cher. Dey wouldn't believe a word a Cajun t'ief said, especially if it was up against a man like Lensherr. Dat man's got every Manhattan law enforcer connected to strings he pulls like puppets whenever convenient for him." Remy said disgustedly.   
  
She pursed her lips. "Yeah, I suppose you're raght. He DID seem awfully friendly wit' Detective Summahs." She thought. "Hey, so what's this all about the Manhattan Massacre? Why do they think you did that?"  
  
Remy's heart skipped a beat; so many reasons he loved her more and more every day he knew her. It wasn't 'you didn't kill all those women did you, Remy?' No, it was 'why do the police think you killed all those women, Remy?' even after he told her about killing Xavier in cold blood. Her faith was just one reason of many. He'd lost count so long ago.  
  
"Remy don't know anyt'ing about dat one, Cher. I'm not worried about it eit'er way, dough. Once we move to New Orleans, which is looking close to inevitable right about now, Remy'll be free from any charges. And if he gets caught, which he won't, dey would hang me for de Xavier murder alone knowing Lensherr's connections. But don't worry, Cher, dat's not going to happen."  
  
Remy pulled her close to him, sliding a hand over her cheek and brushing away a scared tear that streamed down her face. Remy was not weak, not by any means, but her eyes were like a knife twisting pleasurably through his heart, making him weak and more than willing to beg. He loved it.  
  
Cher willingly obliged to his embrace, resting her hands on his toned biceps. "So, whos place is this, Remy?" She asked coyly.  
  
"Mine, Rogue. 'Bought it when I moved up here, along wit' de ot'er place I bought for de bot' of us. A t'ief should always have a backup...for everyt'ing." He captured her mouth with a lasting kiss. She gasped against his mouth when his hands disappeared under the back of her shirt.  
  
She broke the kiss with a grin. "Really? What about women, swamprat? Yah got a backup for them, too?"  
  
His voice became serious and quiet. "No Cher. No backup for dat, or dis one at least." He kissed her again, this time with twice as much vigor. Remy swallowed her sweet taste of honeysuckle and vanilla. Another reason he loved her so much: the unbridled passion. Remy had been around, but after his first time with Cheryl, he knew this was the one he could spend the rest of his life with.   
  
He gathered her in his arms and tumbled her onto the black sheets on the bed. She giggled and returned his playful kisses, then pushed him on his back and straddled his stomach. "Nuh-uh, playboy. What if they heuh us?"   
  
He shrugged, "So what? Let 'em." He grinned deviously and pulled her down on top of him to resume what they were doing.   
  
"Remy!" She said between their kisses. "Are yah sure about this?"   
  
He flipped her on her back and held himself over her with one knee on either side of her hips. "Sure I'm sure!" He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss on each individual fingertip. She sighed in pleasure.   
  
"Remy, you are terrible! Then again, you are wonderful!" She arched her hips and Remy responded enthusiastically by kissing the creamy skin of her neck and letting one hand grip her hip while the other busied itself by fumbling with the zipper of her black pencil skirt. Cher let her eyelids droop and tipped her head back, gulping the sensations that flooded her young body, love and lust being two prominent ones.   
  
The night belonged to lovers, and they amiably seized it.  
  
**  
  
Jean White opened her bleary eyes and wiped the sleep from them. She yawned, but stopped herself. She suddenly recalled why she was unclothed and why there was an arm draped across her waist from behind. Despite herself, she smiled at the recollection of the night before. It had been the best time she had in a long time. He had made her feel so magnificent, paying homage to every square inch of her body.   
  
Jean rolled over silently, facing him, hoping to God he didn't wake up. She loved the things he did, she loved being with him, and perhaps, just plain loved him.  
  
No, she thought. You can't. You'll just hurt him, and yourself. Get over it. You'll forget him once you're in New Orleans anyway.  
  
She rolled her eyes to no one in particular. Lying to Scott was cold-hearted; lying to herself was just pitiful.  
  
Her blood ran hot when he stirred next to her, his arm gently rubbing her side as he woke. His eyes blinked open and focused on her. Then he smiled.   
  
"Morning." She whispered.  
  
"Morning," he yawned. "What time is it?"  
  
She shrugged. "I don't care."  
  
Scott laughed and wrapped her in his arms and the white sheets. "Me neither."  
  
She covered his smile with a full kiss and hopped out of bed. He watched in mild amusement, propped on an elbow, as she buttoned his white, collared shirt onto her body. He followed suit and kicked the down comforter that had entwined with his legs off of him to stand up. He tugged on his underwear and trousers, and stumbled to the white grand sitting in her living room.  
  
"Wow! Do you mind?" He asked, jerking his head toward the bench.   
  
She walked in from the kitchen, cradling a cup of steaming coffee. "Nah, go ahead. I lost interest long ago or else I'd bust out an 'Entertainer' for you."  
  
He grinned wolfishly and plopped down on the seat, lovingly fingering the ivory keys. "It's beautiful." He exclaimed.  
  
"Yeah, Remy got it for me one year for my birthday. I just came home and bam, there it was, sitting there with yellow roses strewn across the top here, kind of like the one we saw last night." She commented, absently placing a hand on the open piano top. "Of course, this was down."  
  
"About last night," Scott began, deciding boldly to press his luck, "I had a really nice time."  
  
"Me, too," she said simply.  
  
He grabbed her hand and pulled her down beside him on the bench, placing his mouth close to her ear. "Am I ever going to see you again after I leave today?" He was finished second-guessing. He had to find out before he lost her to all this treading on eggshells. Sure, she was being a tad difficult, but Scott had a feeling she was worth the trouble. And, not that he was proud of admitting it about someone he hadn't even met yet, but he was almost positive all her emotional worry was in some way fault of her brother's.   
  
Jean let out a startled breath. She obviously wasn't expecting the question, but she slowly nodded after a second of silence. "Yes, you will."  
She kissed him. She didn't know what compelled her, because she had meant every syllable of what she said, so it wasn't as if she were kissing him one last time. She just experienced an overpowering desire to feel him close to her again, like last night.   
  
He returned the kiss, his fingers groping the buttons of his shirt on her body. "No way, mister. You're going to be late for work."   
  
He kissed her neck. "So. Besides, this is my shirt, sweetheart." He tugged at the article of clothing and she sighed, happily defeated.  
  
**  
  
Cheryl's elevator made a satisfying DING after she reached the top floor of the apartment building. She mumbled something of a thanks to the elevator operator and stepped off, quickly walking to Jean's penthouse, one of the only two rooms occupying that particular flat.  
  
She approached Jean's door and knocked.   
  
"Hi, Cher." She bit her lip nervously.  
  
"Hi, hun. I got to tell yah... What's wrong? You look like a shameful li'l puppy dawg."  
  
Jean met the southern woman's eyes. "Scott just left." She said quietly. "He...spent the night."  
  
Cher's eyes became the size of saucers. "What! Our Scott! Detective Summahs Scott!" Cher took a moment to sink it in. "Does Remy know you two are...?"   
  
Jean nodded. "Mm-hmm. He's not thrilled, but since were moving soon anyway, I'm not too worried about it. I was SUPPOSED to fire him yesterday..."  
  
"So Ah've heard."  
  
"...But I just couldn't."  
  
Cheryl sighed, but she understood. When you're in love, you're in love. "Well sugah, raght now that's the least of our problems. Get this: Remy has murdered someone."  
  
That got Jean's attention. Cher recounted the entire ordeal to Jean, leaving no detail out. Jean listened intently, not speaking a word until Cher had finished.  
  
"Okay, have you gone to work yet?"   
  
"Yeah. Ah dropped my stuff off and left a note for Scott because he wasn't there. Ah was wonderin' why! Now I know."  
  
"Alright. Go back and act like nothing's happened. No need to raise suspicion, now. I'll be in a little later to inquire for Remy."  
  
"Ah thought you were going to tell Detective Summahs you didn't need his help, anymore."  
  
"We might as well play it out like we still don't know where Remy is since Scott's looking for him anyway. Otherwise we'll become a suspect because we know where he is."  
  
Cher nodded slowly in agreement. "Gawd, yah do this a lot, don't yah?"  
  
"More times than I'd like to count, but from one woman to another: I've never felt worse about leaving a man than I do for Scott. It's...different with him."  
  
"Aww! You poor thang!"   
  
Jean giggled. "Yeah, poor me."  
  
**  
  
Scott Summers was happier than he could ever remember being. Last night was one of the happiest nights he could ever remember having.   
  
In a phrase, his head was up in the clouds. "No Scott," he muttered to himself, looking down at the pile of papers crowding his desk. "Stay focused." He searched his desk for the file on Remy he was supposed to get back to Betsy a couple days ago. He discovered Cher's note saying she'd be back soon. The file was nowhere to be found. He sighed in frustration; he didn't have time for this, he had to be daydreaming about a certain redhead.  
  
After a couple of restless minutes searching for the file, he decided he gave it to Cher for safekeeping. He groaned and stumbled over to his secretary's desk.   
  
He was more than a little shocked to find every drawer completely bare. 'What the hell?' He thought. The center drawer was usually set aside for personal belongings and Scott didn't exactly want to go rummaging through it, but the file had to be found. Besides, he was a tad curious as to why his secretary's usually packed-full drawers had not one scrap of paper in them.   
  
He debated it for a moment, staring at the slim drawer with a tiny brass handle on it.   
  
Curiosity killed the cat.  
  
He slumped down in Cher's chair and slid the drawer open at an agonizing pace. Again, nothing...except for a photograph worn at the edges of Cher and someone else on a swing. Scott glanced briefly at it and began to shut the drawer when he noticed she was with a man- a tall, lanky man, auburn hair and medium build. He flipped it over and read the words scrawled across the stark white of the blank side: Remy and Cher, Mississippi.  
  
Scott's mouth went dry. No; no way. But it was right there, in black and white. But there's no way Cheryl would Judas them, but it was right there in black and white.  
  
It was right there in black and white. Detective Summers made himself comfortable in her chair and stared at the door, waiting for her to return, and she'd better have a damned good explanation...for her sake.  
  
  
  
  
  
Dun dun DUN! What will happen to Cher? Will Remy be caught and executed? Will Jean become a Judas herself to her brother's cause? Stay tuned to the story and find out!  
  
If you have a suggestion or someone you want to drop in, lemme in on it and we'll see what we can do. K?  



	5. ch.5

Disclaimer: Contrary to popular belief, (okay, nobody's belief), I don't own them. Not a one.   
  
Notes: Somebody suggested I bring in good ole Kitty Pryde, and I will, just not in this chapter. See how that works: You ask, I give. That's how people like Bobby the barber, Jubilee the waiter, and Ororo the nightclub singer came to be. It can happen! Even if you don't have a suggestion, drop a review. I REALLY appreciate the ones I've gotten so far. (sniff, sniff) You guys are the greatest.(drying my eyes) Just gimme a second. (weeping shamelessly)  
  
OH! Also, just found out I've been spelling Lehnsherr all wrong! So sorry!  
  
And, of course, who the hell knows how Remy and Jean can be siblings and he still be Cajun. That's why it's called Fan-FICTION. As always, review, review, review!  
  
  
NYC  
  
  
Cheryl stopped dead in her tracks. His jaw was clenched firmly, his fists balled tightly, and he was sitting at her desk, waiting for her. That wasn't a good sign.   
  
"Detective, what's wrong?"   
  
His mouth twisted into a wry a smile that was somewhere between cynical and disbelieving. "Don't even pretend, Miss. Mississippi."  
  
Ironic, Cher decided, that he should use his playful nickname for her just before he was about to undoubtedly blow up. "Honest, Scott. Ah don't know what yah're talking about."  
  
"Maybe this will jog your memory, Cheryl." He held up a photograph Cher immediately recognized as the one she dropped off earlier. It had been safely placed in her desk drawer, she remembered.  
  
"What are yah doing going through my stuff, Detective?"   
  
"I was looking for the file on White; I thought maybe I gave it to you. I also couldn't help but notice that every single drawer was completely EMPTY!" He fought inwardly to regain composure.   
  
"Ah...Ah'm sorry! Ah'm sorry, Detective!" She pleaded.  
  
"I don't want to hear it." He said coolly. There was a dangerous silence that gnawed at the air. It was a quiet where one is not sure to prepare to defend themselves from an outrage or to create their own scene by lashing out irrationally. The only sound was the whirling of the fan, spinning mockingly above them as if to say, 'Ha ha. There you sit in distress as I twirl carelessly, totally oblivious to your turmoil.'  
  
"Do you know where he is now, Cher?" Detective Summers asked tightly.  
  
Cher stood straight and stoic, determined not to let him see how outraged, confused, and above all, scared she was. She resisted the temptation to bite her lip or ring her hands; they were dead giveaways. Instead, she swallowed hard and held her head high.   
  
"Cher," he prompted.  
  
She shook her head, a choppy bang falling in front of her spectacular green eyes. "No, Detective. Ah don't."  
  
"Damn it Cher! You're really somethin' to lie to me at a time like this, sweetheart, you know that!?"  
  
"Ah'm sorry! What do you want me to do? Tell you something Ah don't know?"  
  
He shot up from his seat so fast Cher had to suppress a yelp. "No, I want you to tell me something you do know! NOW! 'Cause I know you know where that damned, worthless, good for nothing, swamprat is! I know you know!" He repeated, yelling inches form her face now.  
  
Cher held back her sobs and rising fury. He was pushing it.  
  
"I mean, do you know how worried sick his sister has been? She's been killing herself over finding him, and you sit there, well aware." He stopped, and mumbled, "Sick."  
  
Her eyes glazed a furious shade of jade, mirroring the overcast her patience just experienced. "How dare you, Mistah Summahs! How can yah sit there and pretend you've been taking this whole case for the good of citizens in Manhattan. It's obvious that wasn't all there was to it, Detective." The southerner sneered the last words.  
  
Scott's eyes narrowed. "What's THAT supposed to mean, Cher?"  
  
"It means, where were yah last night? ALL night? Were you, oh Ah don't know, at a client's house!"  
  
Scott's body stiffened. "First of all, that's none of your business. Second of all, my relation to Jean has nothing to do with finding her brother. And third, you're dodging the question. Where. Is. Remy?"  
  
"Ah don't think Ah'm dodging the question at all, 'cause maybe Ah'm not the only one you should be asking!"  
  
Their hollering was abruptly put to an end when Jean swung the door open, concern etched on her face. "What is all the screaming about?"  
  
Scott reared his head to her and answered, "Guess what, Jean? Guess what our li'l Mississippian knows about the location of your brother and has been selfishly with-holding from us?" He stated sarcastically.  
  
Jean's eyes met Cher's and the two exchanged a worried glance. "What are you talking about, Scott?" Jean asked sweetly, never losing grip of the façade.   
  
"I'm talking about MY secretary being in a relationship with YOUR brother, Remy. She refuses to say where he is, isn't that just cute?" He spat.  
  
For Jean, the room began to spin mercilessly and the air became muggy and still. Her entire body went clammy and all eyes seemed to be on her, most importantly, Scott's eyes. This was the moment she had dreaded all along. He had to be told. The frosty fact sent her stomach to twist into an unpleasant, trepidation-glazed knot. Oh, if only she could scream "stop time", whisk him away back to Elements, and spend the rest of their lives together between the serene, familiar walls of the jazz club, sipping martinis and letting that Munroe woman envelop them with her sultry hypnotic voice.  
  
She tormented herself with the impossible scenario for one second longer before hesitantly saying, "Scott. We...I need to tell..." she paused and gazed at him once more, relishing her last seconds as his lover. "You need to know something."  
  
He turned directly toward her, apparently having forgotten Cher and his anger for the moment. The look on her face unleashed a million and one horrible thoughts into his head. He hated to admit it, but he was afraid-- afraid she was giving him the gentle let down. It had never bothered him before with other women. But they were other women; this was Jean. Suddenly, nothing else mattered except him and this broad he stumbled upon, or rather, stumbled upon him, and how to make her happy. Anything she wanted, he'd get it. The stars never seem plausible until you're in love because damn it, if she wanted a star, he would make sure she woke up the next morning with Polaris at the foot of her bed.  
  
When he didn't say anything, Jean stole a glance at Cher and continued. "Cheryl and I know Remy is here in Manhattan. We've seen him. And he's done something he will get in a lot of trouble for if the police ever catch him."  
  
Not exactly what I was expecting, Scott thought. He was stunned speechless as they recounted the story of the cocaine shipment, the drunken rage of Xavier's, the murder, Remy's return a couple of days back, and his being falsely accused of the Manhattan Massacre.   
  
When they had finished, they stood silently, waiting for even the slightest reaction from the detective. Cher gave up her previous attempts to be unreadable and wrung her hands in anxiety while Jean shifted her weight from one foot to another, debating whether or not to strike up a response.  
  
Summers slowly returned to Cher's chair and sat, slumping slightly as he rested his elbows on his knees. "And you believe all of this?"   
  
"Of course we believe it! Why wouldn't we?" Cher asked, a little startled at the implication.  
  
"Well, Remy IS a thief and a smuggler. I, personally, wouldn't put lying past someone with a record like that."  
  
"Are you trying to say that my brother was lying to us? For what purpose?" Jean questioned.  
  
"Well, he did murder someone. That doesn't exactly qualify as a gentlemen thing to do. Maybe he didn't want to lose any respect from you," he turned to Cher, "or you, so perhaps he conjured up the cocaine story to make it seem as if he was being the noble knight." The look on the women's faces showed they did not agree. "I'm not saying that's what he did, but it's possible, is it not? Plus, I know Lehnsherr and he just doesn't seem like the drug type."  
  
"You are horrible, Detective, just HORRIBLE!" Cher's voice was balancing temper and hurt. "You don't understand a thing." She stomped out of the room, slamming the glass paned door behind her.  
  
Jean stood awkwardly alone in the center of the room, an unwilling prey under Scott's pained gaze.   
  
She spoke lowly. "You know you're just saying that because he's from the streets. He may not have ever experienced a traditional Christmas morning, or fished with his father, or pitched a baseball around with friends, but he's a wonderful man and I'm proud to be his sister." She took a second to wipe the moisture welling in her eyes. "Our mother died when I was nine and he was thirteen. Our father was a drunk. He beat Remy almost every night and I knew in the dark recesses of my mind that the bastard was just waiting 'til I got old enough and blossomed into a woman..." She didn't finish her sentence. She didn't have to. "Remy didn't have to take me away with him, when he ran. He was just a kid and I doubt he wanted the responsibility, but he did take me and has taken care of me ever since- even when we were living in and out of gang houses and mafia circles, just barely scraping by."  
  
Jean got quiet and silently slipped into a fleeting reverie. She recalled how every time one of the gangsters or bums gave her looks that had definite intentions behind them, Remy would make sure they were out of that particular residence as soon as possible. "I'm lucky to have him in my life."  
  
Detective Summers resisted the urge to hug her and kiss it all away. But as much as he wanted it to, Jean's story didn't sway his opinion totally on this Remy character. Scott was still convinced that Remy did nothing but fill both Jean and Cher's heads with lies and stories in which he ended up the hero.  
  
Jean understood immediately what he was thinking and seemed none too pleased. After all, she had just poured her soul out to him and he responded with such rebuttal it made her heart ache. "God, Scott. I just told you something neither Remy nor I tell too many people and you are so stubborn that you can't even consider the possibility that he's not so bad? How can you be so cold?" Her voice trembled but Scott couldn't bring himself to back down.   
  
He cursed Remy for his masterful brainwashing skills. The women truly thought the world of him. Scott hated to use such a harsh term, but evidence screamed that he killed Xavier and those six women. He couldn't let a pair of voluptuous hips or a sinfully red mouth cloud his mind from the cold, hard facts.  
  
Jean shook her head, disbelieving. Wordlessly, she turned and strode out of the office before he could see the accumulated tears fall.   
  
Scott nearly went after her, but didn't. God, seeing her cry was heartbreaking; knowing he was the cause of it was unbearable. He needed a stiff drink.  
  
**  
  
Cher had never been so outraged in her entire twenty-four years. How dare he? He didn't even KNOW Remy and he was judging him! How dare he?  
  
Her eyes caught sight of a man leaning against the lamppost outside her apartment building, smoking a cigarette, and her heart leaped. It was Remy.  
  
"Hey, Rogue." He said, smothering his smoke as she approached and kissed her on the mouth. It was meant to be brief, but it deepened immediately into a passionate embrace. When they parted, Remy noticed the scowl creasing her features and asked, "What's wrong, baby?"  
  
She sighed. "Oh, Remy! Somethin' terrible has happened. Detective Summahs found out about me and you and Jean. We didn't tell him anything, so he can't go to the police, but oh, he has me so worried!" Cher buried her face into Remy's shoulder and inhaled the thick scent of his cologne.  
  
Remy stroked her hair rubbed her back soothingly. "Dere, dere, Cher. Not'in to worry about, eh? Remy will straighten dis whole mess out; he's not worried about de detective. What's he gonna tell de police dat dey don't already know, hmm?" He continued rocking her in the middle of the sidewalk as onlookers stared sympathetically and moved on. "Let's get out of here and take dis up to your place, alright?"  
  
**  
  
"He said a lot of mean things, Remy- things about you. Even right in front of Jean!" Cher stated later as she and Remy packed away her belongings. It was pretty obvious now that they were going to have to leave for New Orleans, and soon.  
  
"Remy's not too concerned about it. Dough it does bot'er me a little dat he broke my sister's heart, but if Jeannie hadn't been such a damned fool and never gotten in a relationship wit' him like I told her, she wouldn't be in dis mess." Remy shook his head absently, as if Jean could somehow see the disapproving gesture.  
  
"Oh, Remy, give her a break. The gal's in love. What if Ah had listened to all mah friends and never fell head over heels for you, huh? What then?" Cher set down the glass she was currently wrapping and caught Remy in a hug around the waist.   
  
He smiled wickedly. "Well in dat case, Remy still would have swept you off your feet."  
  
She kissed him. "Oh really? How's that?"  
  
He kissed her again. "Remy has his ways. But if he told you, he'd have to kill you."  
  
They both chuckled. Remy wanted nothing more than to throw her on the bed and have his wicked way with her, but there was work to be done. He engaged in one last parting kiss with her and headed for the door.  
  
"Where are yah goin'?" She asked.  
  
"To straighten out dis Summers mess. Remy will be right back; you just stay dere looking gorgeous as ever."  
  
"And how do yah plan to do that?" She crossed her arms in mock questioning.  
  
"I'm not going to do anyt'ing. An old friend is."  
  
Cher smiled as he closed the apartment door behind him after flashing a customary grin. Charmer, she thought, and went back to wrapping each individual glass, only vaguely noticing that every headline on them revolved around the Manhattan Massacre. Poah gals, Cher mumbled, her voice laced with concern.  
Cher never saw it coming.  
  
**  
  
Scott strolled along the sidewalk, his mind glazed with fatigue and the slight buzz he just received at Elements. He'd been walking for almost ten minutes toward the direction of his apartment when he noticed that he was being followed. At first, it had been a gut intuition, but that was enough. He started circling the block and sure enough, his tail, a man in a long black trench coat and matching hat, was always a good distance behind him.  
  
Detective Summers slipped into an alley and walked to the dead center of it, making no attempt to blend with the shadows. He halted and kept his back to his persecutor. Placing his hands on his hips, under his coat and near his holster, he called out, "Yes, Logan?" Scott knew only one other man that could track as well as himself, and that man was Logan.  
  
"Summers, fancy seeing your ugly mug here."  
  
"Yeah, okay. Cut the crap; is there a reason you're following me?"  
  
Logan stepped carefully, always the hunter, to where Scott stood. The detective turned to face him. Logan spoke swift and sharp- two words almost always associated with him. "I hear you're sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."  
  
"So what's it to ya'? You're not associated with the Whites, or have you forgotten?"  
  
Logan growled, a sound that sent an unnerving tingle shooting through Scott's spine. "Don't get smart; I'm just tryin' to lay some advice in that thick skull of yers."  
  
Scott cocked a bemused eyebrow. "Advice," he repeated. "Thanks, but no thanks."  
  
"Listen, dick. You're better off staying away from this whole mess if you knew what was good for you."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because you don't belong with all this shit. You're a Good Samaritan, you've got, what, a few parking tickets on your record, you do your civic duty, etc, etc, etc. Don't blow it all 'cause you couldn't keep it in your pants for a nice lookin' redhead."  
  
"Aw, I never had you pinpointed as the sensitive type, Logan." Scott shot.  
  
"Still ain't getting' it, eh? Alright then, let me put it this way. If I catch you with either Remy, or Cher, or especially Jean 'cause I know you've got a spot for her, I'll put you in cement and toss you into the Hudson. We clear?"  
  
Without waiting for a response, Logan turned and stalked away, quickly disappearing into the shadows and mist.  
  
Scott took a cab the rest of the way home so he could think. He knew Logan wasn't a bluffer; so when he said he'd do something, he'd do it. The first time they'd talked about this Remy issue, Logan didn't specifically tell him to stay away from them, merely suggested it. This time, Logan gave a flat out warning: if Scott went near Jean again, he'd kill him.   
  
The detective's odds against the stout Canadian were pretty good, but there would always be someone there every time Scott turned around to 'avenge his boss.' It would only turn into a vicious cycle in which Scott would find himself always glancing over his shoulder or limiting his hangouts so as to avoid any of Logan's 'associates.' Scott didn't want to live like that.   
  
Scott should have heeded the warning, common sense told him that. But he never was one to let anyone push him around. His run in with Logan only served in making Scott more eager to resume things with Jean and a tad bit jealous. The twinge of bitterness that crept into Logan's voice whenever Jean was mentioned didn't go unnoticed to Scott. Damn my stubbornness, he thought, even as he called up to the cab driver to alter their course, going instead to a certain woman's penthouse.  
  
**  
  
To Scott's mild surprise, Jean was not home. So, deciding she must have went to Cher's to talk out things, or curse men, or whatever women do after a fight with their significant other, he went to his secretary's, excuse me, ex-secretary's apartment.  
  
The minute he reached Cher's floor Scott could sense something amiss. Things got suspiciously silent and the air got eerie and still. He slowly approached Cher's door, hand close to holster if necessary; the door was partially open.  
  
"Hello," he called in.  
  
The door swung open to reveal Jean, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Scott," she said weakly.  
  
He moved to console her when the door swung open further to reveal her brother, jaw set tight, hand clenching the door side.  
  
"This is Remy, my brother." Jean lifted a hand toward Scott. "And this, Remy, is Detective Scott Summers."  
  
"So dis is what all de fuss is about." Remy snarled.  
  
"I could say the same for you, pal." Scott shot back.  
  
"Gentlemen!" Jean raised her arms in truce. "Stop it. We have bigger problems at hand here than a foolish bicker."  
  
"Where's Cher?" Scott suddenly noticed the owner of the apartment was absent.  
  
Jean led Scott into the apartment and shut the door behind him. Scott's jaw plummeted at the sight. The place was destroyed, completely turned inside out. A sick dread washed over him. 'Oh no.'  
  
Jean snatched a note off the counter and handed it to the detective with trembling hands. "Here." It read,  
  
"My how the tables have turned Mr. White  
~E."  
  
Scott gasped. Cher had been kidnapped!  
  
  
  
  
So okay, what did everyone think? Still going alright? Review, review, review! I only post new chapters after I accumulate a certain amount of reviews for the previous one, so the more reviews I get, the sooner we can find out what's going to happen to Cher! Bad ones count, too. Get it! Okay.  
This chapter may be an exception to that rule, though, since it's so short. I'll probably post the next one soon anyways. So, I guess that's all. 


	6. ch.6..I know U love the creative titles!

Don't own a blasted thing.  
  
  
NYC  
  
  
"I'll kill him," Remy muttered, pacing the room readily.  
  
"Who is it?" Scott asked Jean. Remy didn't look like he was in the mood to answer questions. But to Scott's surprise, he did.  
  
"Eric Lehnsherr; the one you think can do no evil." He spat, shying away from Jean's consoling hand before adding as an afterthought, "I'm sure of it."  
  
"Well where do we find him?" Scott interrogated.  
  
Jean met his eyes, shocked. "You mean you're going to help us?"  
  
Scott nodded. "She's a friend of mine as well. I'm sorry, but I still can't say that I agree with you a hundred percent, but I don't see anything wrong with checking Lehnsherr out, just to be sure."  
  
Remy stopped and narrowed his eyes at Scott. "Gee thanks, mon amie, but we don't need your help OR your pity."  
  
"Remy," Jean muttered.  
  
"I wasn't pitying you; she's my friend."  
  
Jean placed a hand on Remy's arm and guided him to a far corner of the room. Scott, noticing her hint toward privacy, buried his nose in the note again.  
  
"Remy," she whispered, taking her brother's hands with her own, "We could use him. We can't do this alone. People, they don't know him; they'd never suspect him."  
  
Remy pursed his mouth. "Cher was upset de last time I saw her, and it was because of dat fool over dere. How is Remy supposed to trust a man dat t'inks not'in of people like us 'cause we from de street? And if Remy 'members clearly, isn't dis de man dat had tears runnin' down your face earlier dis mornin', too?"  
  
"Yes; but unlike some people I'm willing to put aside petty things like that to find Cher."  
  
"Don't you t'ink Remy wouldn't do anyt'ing in his power to get back Cher? Dat girl is my life, Red."  
  
Jean sighed. "I know, Remy. I know you want to find her and I can only imagine how much you must be hurting right now. That is why we NEED Scott, not only because he'll increase our numbers, but because he's a detective, a damned good one. Maybe he knows places or has connections that you may not be aware of."  
  
"Impossible." Remy said tightly. He looked out the window of Cher's twelve-story apartment at the dismal night moon, weeping in all her pale glory as she basked in the silver starlight. He turned back to his sister. "Alright, we take him." He said it loud enough for Scott to hear, who turned around at the sound of Remy's voice. "But if you screw up just once..."  
  
"Let's go," Jean broke him off, heading for the door.  
  
"Where do we look first?" Scott asked, following the siblings.  
  
"Logan." They said in unison.  
  
**  
  
"Not at Barry's, not on Jackson Avenue, not at Elements, not at the alley. He's gone!" Jean exclaimed, plopping down on a street bench.   
  
Remy paced in front of her. "Yeah, he's not at any of his regular places. Too bad too, Remy t'inks he probably knows where to find Lehnsherr."  
  
"Logan, really?" Scott asked, taking a seat next to Jean.   
  
Remy nodded. "Yeah, Logan knows a couple of t'ings."  
  
"I hope he's not hurt." Jean said, knitting her eyebrows in worry.  
  
"Nah, Red. Logan's a big boy. He probably just beat it to that place of his upstate to lay low for a while." Remy cast a cautious glance toward Scott, as if he was unsure he should have mentioned Logan's other residence. It didn't matter, Scott knew about it already. "You know Logan, always layin' low for somet'in or ot'er."   
  
Jean nodded the affirmative and stood up, suddenly rejuvenated. "So, what now? Logan's off the list; do you know anyone else that might know where Lehnsherr is?"  
  
They looked to Scott. He shook his head. "Logan was my first and last resort, too."  
  
Remy punched the lamppost and screamed, "Damn it!" He regained his calm immediately, so fast Scott even wondered if he had actually done it. Remy eyed Jean and Scott thoughtfully.   
  
"What?" Jean asked.  
  
"Looks like we're going to have to hit de Brunette." He answered solemnly.  
  
"What! Are you serious? Are you sure there's no one else you night know, because I really don't feel like visiting that place. Not now, not ever."  
  
Remy shook his head no and began walking, his companions following.  
  
"Um, the Brunette?" Scott looked to Jean,  
  
"It's a club in Brooklyn." She said flatly. "Its frequent members include gangsters- bad ones too, we're talking like Capone bad, serial killers, kidnappers, dealers, thieves, pretty much anything that roams New York's streets. Remy's been in there once, and that was all it took. It wasn't that he couldn't hold his own, on the contrary- he fended off six guys alone. It was because some things are too horrible for even a smuggler that's played the streets his whole life like my brother."   
  
Scott was silent as he watched Remy enter a run-down Sears store and return in a 1941 Chevrolet Coupe, black.  
  
"Nice," Scott said, sliding into the backseat, Jean in the front.  
  
"It's a friend of mine's. He owes Remy a favor, t'ought I might as well use it before he finds out Remy slept wit' his daughter." Jean glared at him. "Relax. It was before Remy even knew Cher, Red."  
  
Remy sped the entire way to Brooklyn, but the ride still seemed to last forever. The trio was anxious for information on Cher's condition. Remy was fuming, to say the least. He could be heard from time to time mumbling such things as, "...swear when Remy gets his hands..." or "better HOPE we don't find...."  
  
**  
  
Scott stepped out onto the sidewalk and inspected the club. Immediately, he knew Remy and Jean were right: the joint screamed 'Gangster Club.' It was obvious from the lack of that mile-long line outside of the door that came complete with every New York hotspot, especially on a Friday night, that this club was reserved for the few with blood drenched hands.   
  
"I'm going in with you." Scott heard behind him. He turned to find Jean talking to Remy.  
  
"We've been t'rough dis before, Red. You're not coming in wit' me, it's too risky. What happens if dey realize we related, eh? Dat gives dem a bargaining chip to use against me, and Remy don't have time to fuck around wit' dat. We need to find Cher now."  
  
Jean cocked her head to the side, a sure sign to her brother that she was in stubborn mode. "No, I don't care, I'm coming in." She looked at Scott, who had been a silent bystander up until then, as if she just realized he was present. "Scott! Scott and I can go in, find a seat at the bar, and watch from there." Remy looked Scott over with speculative eyes. The detective felt as if a whole were burning into him from those critical eyes, but he did not flinch. Scott knew that's exactly what Remy was trying to get him to do, but damn it, he held his ground.  
  
Jean continued. "I don't care what you say, I'm not letting you go in there without someone covering you. That place is dangerous, Remy. Satan practically OWNS it, for goodness' sake."  
  
Remy weighed the idea in his head; Scott watched. Remy stole another glance at his stubborn sister. "Damn redheads," he mumbled to Scott before turning back to Jean. "You packed, li'l girl?"  
  
Jean reached into her purse and pulled out a small 22 Caliber automatic, ivory handle. Scott's eyes went wide. This frail packed almost as much heat as he did.  
  
"Are YOU loaded, mon amie?" Remy asked.  
  
Scott, still a bit stunned, nodded dumbly and briefly flashed the 9-millimeter tucked tight against his body, under his shirt.  
  
Remy nodded approvingly. "Good. I'm going in first; you two follow in about ten minutes."   
  
Once inside, Scott quickly found two seats at the bar for him and Jean. She hopped onto the barstool and scoped the room nonchalantly, elbowing Scott slightly after finding Remy in a corner booth with a man. He was fat and boisterous with a greasy mustache and an even slicker smile, a woman sat on either side of him. At closer glance they were seen to be twins, young too. Jean guessed their age to be eighteen at most, and that was pushing it. 'Sick,' she thought. Scott, seemingly having picked up on her train of thought, shared her grimace.  
  
**  
  
"Ah, Remy. It's been a while, kid. Where ya' been?" Tha fat Italian said before guzzling down a shot-glass of God only knows what.   
  
"Around, Valentine. Remy's been around."  
  
"Yea, I bet!" Valentine laughed heartily, casting what he thought to be an alluring glance toward one of the twins that were pawing him.  
  
"Anyways," Remy cut to the chase before he puked at the degrading sight before him. 'Just kids,' he thought almost sympathetically. "You ever hear of a fella named Lehnsherr? He-"  
  
He was interrupted by a mousy looking man that had approached to whisper quickly in Valentine's ear and shoot the occasional dagger at Remy.   
  
Remy was immediately on edge. This was not good.  
  
"Problem, homme?" He asked casually after the little man left, his long fingers toying with the silk tablecloth.   
  
Valentine grinned, and then did something that shot ice through Remy's blood. He looked over to where Jean was sitting at the bar.   
  
'Merde. He knows.'  
  
"She's somethin' to see, eh Cajun?" Remy glanced over his shoulder but didn't answer. He refused to play mouse to this rat. "Well, maybe she ain't nothin' to you, because she's your sister."  
  
Remy turned back around to look at Valentine. The fat man tore his beady eyes from Jean and resumed the conversation as if nothing had happened. "Yea, I know Lehnsherr. Why?"  
  
Remy suddenly became aware of the situation but still said, "I need information."  
  
Valentine tipped his head back in satisfaction, speaking what Remy already knew. "I can do that, White. I can do anything... for a price." His disgustingly ravenous gaze fell on Jean again, as if silently naming the stakes. "Something about redheads, huh? I LOVE 'em, absolutely love 'em." He paused to slip his pudgy fingers through one of the teenage twin's hair, the girl eagerly pressing against him at the attention in hopes of earning more money for the night. "So what do ya' say, Remy? I'll trade ya'. One night with that li'l girl for all the information you need."   
  
Remy swallowed hard, positively revolted. 'Just like the good ole days,' he thought wryly. "No, man. Remy can't do dat. Sorry." He got up to leave, resisting the urge to kill the sick bastard point blank and wondering how the hell he and his lapdogs found out about his sister.  
  
"Me, too." Valentine replied.  
  
**  
  
Back outside of the club, Jean, Scott, and Remy piled into the car. Jean and Scott waited nervously for Remy to recount the details, but didn't dare say a word. He was even more upset than when he went in.  
  
Remy gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles but didn't start the engine. "Summers, get out of the car."  
  
Detective Summers blinked, confused. He looked around to make sure he heard right, but was confirmed when Remy opened his own door and got out of the vehicle. Scott followed suit.  
  
"I need you to take her back to Manhattan and watch her. You ever heard of de Nightcrawler?" Scott said he did. "Good, take her dere. I have a place on de top floor, de key is wit' a guy at de bar, his name is Warren. He knows Jeannie so you shouldn't have a problem getting in. Remy needs to take care of some stuff here. I'll be back as soon as I can."  
  
Scott assured him it was as good as done and Remy thanked him. "Oh and Detective?" Scott turned from opening the car door. "Whatever happens to her, I'll make sure happens to you, too. Got it? I'll die if somet'in happens to Cher. You'll die if somet'in happens to my sister." And with that, Remy disappeared behind the club, leaving Scott to climb into the driver's seat and think on those words as he drove away.  
  
Remy, in the meantime, made better use of his limited time. He went to find a prostitute from the lot of them behind the Brunette.   
  
**  
  
"Now, let's go over it again." Remy said later to the chosen candidate.   
  
The woman had too much make-up on and the dress that climbed her legs could have used a wash, or two. She had an okay body, though, and most importantly, she had red hair, albeit it was died.  
  
She rolled her eyes, clearly irritated. "Yea, yea. I'm going to go in, do my thing, tell him I heard he had a thing for redheads, and offer him a li'l something."  
  
Remy nodded. "And if he tells you to get under de table and do it?"  
  
"I say 'no' and make sure he gets his ass out HERE." She said, pointing down at the pavement to exaggerate her point.  
  
"Okay, go ahead." Remy waved his hand toward the back entrance and told her to make it quick.  
  
He waited for roughly fifteen minutes, slinking into the shadows behind the dumpster, anticipating. When the backdoor swung open to reveal a drunk, giddy Valentine and the whore he sent in, Remy sprung to attention. She giggled and backed him into a wall, instantly falling to her knees. Valentine didn't even notice Remy's fist make hard contact with his jaw until he was lying flat on is back on the street ground.   
  
Remy shoved a few twenties in the woman's hand and sent her away, turning his attention back on the gangster at his feet once she was out of sight. He hoisted him up, slamming him back into the wall, and slapped him around a bit more. "Not so tough wit'out your people to watch your back, hey homme?"   
  
"Stop!" He cried, clumsily smearing the blood streaming from his lip and nose. "What do you want?!"  
  
"Tell me about Lehnsherr you sick piece of shit. NOW!"   
  
"Fuck you." Valentine sneered, staggering back onto his feet.  
  
Remy's patience had been flirting with the brink of control ever since he discovered Cher missing. Every second that passed put more and more ideas into Remy's head as to what was happening to the woman he loved with his entire heart. This fat, greasy, Italian picked the wrong man to fuck with tonight.  
  
Remy elbowed him in the nose, sending him flying to the ground with a loud, sickening thud. Remy kicked him in the ribs twice with all his strength until Valentine yelped, blood sputtering from his swollen mouth, "Alright, alright. I'll talk. I don't know much, but if you're looking for him, he's probably in Manhattan."   
  
"Where in Manhattan?" Remy said coolly, cradling his sore knuckles with his other hand.  
  
"A warehouse! On, um, Christ what's the name of the street? Maple! Maple Street. He does a lot of business in that abandoned warehouse down there. He asked if I was interested in anything, but I said no."  
  
Remy kicked him again, just for good measure. He wiped the accumulated sweat off his upper lip with the back of his now-raw hand. He then stepped on Valentine's groin and proceeded to walk over him. "T'anks, mon amie. Remy knew you'd see it my way."  
  
**  
  
Cher tentatively peeked an eye open, only to slam it shut instantly on account of the blaring light from the lamp swinging directly above her.   
  
Reflexively, she tried to raise her hand to her face and shield the intense light beating into her eyelids, only to find her hands were bound behind the wooden chair she soon realized she was sitting on. Her feet were tied together and against the legs of the seat, a handkerchief knotted behind her head, sufficiently gagging her. Cher recalled the gun slamming down on the pressure point between her shoulders, back at her apartment, sending her into the black she had just emerged from.   
  
Panicking, she struggled against her restraints in vain. They were tight enough to cut circulation, and knotted in such a fashion that even the slightest movement caused them to constrict even more. She wriggled violently against the rope, her head bobbing fiercely from side to side and suppressed squeals of frustration emanating from her throat.  
  
"Stop that. In case you failed to notice, it's useless." The voice was solemn, almost warm, with a hint of a German accent. Cher recognized it immediately.  
  
Eric Lehnsherr stepped into the light and peered down at the defenseless woman. She looked straight back into his cloudy eyes, her own fathomless pools of green saying all that she needed to, none of the words printable.  
  
Eric merely chuckled at her though, finding the entire scenario completely amusing. Coming closer to her, he snatched her chin in his calloused hand and squeezed firmly with his thumb and forefinger. She narrowed her eyes, daring him to go any further.  
  
"If you want to leave this place with a pulse, woman, I suggest you listen to every single word I have to say." He slid his hand from her face to behind her head, untying the gag. "I assume I don't have to say that if you scream, Sean here will be forced to use his new gun. I wouldn't risk it; it's such a pretty li'l head you've got on those shoulders. I wouldn't want to seen it blown right off."  
  
Cher noticed a man had come around from behind her, clutching a Tummy-gun. He stayed within the shadows, but even if he stepped into the direct light Cher was under, she wouldn't have been able to see his face. He wore his hat too low to see anything but a chin with stubble sprouting from it and tufts of dirty blonde hair peeking through the sides. Sean, Cher decided.  
  
Eric kneeled before her, his hands resting on her knees. His cold stare swallowed her own eyes, and she suddenly found herself very afraid and worse yet, vulnerable. He spoke slowly, annunciating each word perfectly. "You are beautiful." Her skin crawled at the very sound, her stomach jumped at the very feel of his sweltering breath on her porcelain face.  
  
She inclined her head in another direction, a look of pure repulsion painting her usually pretty features. She shuttered when his hand rose again to her, this time to caress her pale cheek. She flinched and spat on him, causing his hand to immediately draw back and wipe the saliva from his eye before backhanding her across the face.  
  
"Bitch! You'll regret that when I'm clutching your throat in a death grip."  
  
Comprehension dawned on Cher at that moment with those very words. "You're the one responsible for the Manhattan Massacre!" She gasped, pressing the small of her back as close to the chair as possible. Now, she was indeed afraid. Mortally petrified.  
  
Eric again flashed his sinister smile, relishing the terrified look on his prey's face. "These are the moments I live for." He muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Yes; I am he. Well, let me rephrase that. I can't very well take all the credit. My associate, Xavier, did help tremendously." He slipped into a blissful reverie. "It was more fun than you could imagine- first finding them, then hunting them, and finally, when the time was right, doing away with them. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, as satisfying as catching a glimpse of that last dying breath, the shade of blues and purples they turn, witnessing that feeling of hopelessness that overcomes them at the very end when they realize darkly that this is the absolute closure of their young, beautiful lives." He sighed and looked at Cher's horrified face. "Oh yes, they were always beautiful. Charles and I, we only hunted the prime."  
  
She bit back gut-wrenching tears. "You're...a monster!"  
  
"Why!?" He suddenly snapped. "Why am I a monster, because I have taken another's life? Your lover has done this exactly! At least I admit to enjoying it while Remy continues to lie to himself- telling him and all of you that it was out of self-defense and he was forced to do it! Lies!" He was screaming by now, and Cher could tell he was dangerously close to hitting something- probably her again.  
  
Despite Lehnsherr's words, Cher refused to believe him. She knew in her heart that what he said wasn't true, that Remy was a good man and would never hurt another human being unless he had to. Why this crazed lunatic found it necessary to lie to himself was beyond her. Perhaps this was his way with dealing with the loss of Xavier. From what she understood he and Eric had been very close. Either way, he was a sick fuck that needed to be dealt with by Remy, and she prayed it was soon before this guy did something crazy.  
  
**  
  
"No, Remy! You can't just leave me here! Cher could be in trouble and I want to help!" Jean exclaimed as her brother packed two guns tightly against his ribs and threw on his black-with-white-stripes suit coat over it. Without even casting her a second glance, he strode purposefully to the front door of his place above the Nightcrawler, flinging it open. Scott was close on his heels, similarly loaded.   
  
"Remy White, don't you DARE walk away from me when I'm talking to you!" Jean screamed from behind him.  
  
Remy stopped dead in his tracks and spun around, eyes ablaze. Jean didn't even see him cross the distance between them and grab her shoulders, but she sure felt it. "Don't you get it, Red? Dis isn't your average, run of de mill bust. It's Cher's life! I know you can take care of yourself; dat's not my concern. It's dat if you go, dere's ALWAYS a chance you'll get jumped or swarmed. I'm not going to take dat chance; I've got to worry about Cher right now. Me and Scott are going, and Remy promises we'll be back before you know it."  
  
Jean stood silent. She slowly nodded her head in understanding. "Okay," she whispered. Remy brushed her chin with his forefinger.   
  
" 'Atta girl, Red." He kissed her on the cheek and walked out the door.   
  
Scott, ready to follow out with him, turned first to Jean. "I'll bring him back alive, Jean. Don't worry."  
  
She inhaled deeply and hurried to where he stood in the doorway, grabbing his hands with her own. "You bring yourself back alive, too." She said before pressing her mouth against his. He savored the brief embrace for all it was worth until he heard Remy's returning footsteps.  
  
Remy, knowing full well what was probably taking place in the room, called from the top of the stairs instead of interrupting the moment, "C'mon Summers! Remy ain't got all day!"  
  
The couple tore away from each other. "I will." Scott said, planting one last good-bye kiss on her cherry pout before racing after Remy.  
  
Jean closed the door behind them and moved to the window. After she watched them drive off in Remy's borrowed mode of transportation, she slipped on her cream colored hat that matched her dress, adjusted the small veil covering her eyes, and went downstairs to hail a taxi. She couldn't remember ever having disobeyed Remy before this.  
  
**  
  
Scott had to admit, he was impressed. Remy single handedly found a way into the warehouse, actually GOT both of them through the top window, and discovered a discreet, dark corner to lay low for a bit while they scoped the place out. There was a balcony constructed of metal pipes and railings that ran the entire perimeter of the interior of the building. Remy and Scott could only see a portion of the warehouse from where they stood on it since there was a variety of closed in rooms and hallways, but it was handy nonetheless. It allowed them to get a full map-out of the place, even if they couldn't see through the roofs of the rooms. Not that it mattered terribly. Most of the rooms were being used for shipment, storage, and exchange of goods and therefore were swarming with unwanted attention. Almost all had ramps protruding from them, leading outside for the trucks that needed to haul merchandise in and out.  
  
Remy turned to Scott. "We'll split up. What kind of gun are you carrying?"  
  
"Nine millimeter," Scott answered, knowing already why Remy asked. If Scott found Cher first, he would shoot his gun in the air once and Remy would be able to identify who it was if the sound was coming from Scott's gun. So in this case, Remy would be listening for a nine-millimeter glock.  
  
The two men separated, each going the opposite way on the balcony. It clanged under their weight, but it couldn't be heard over the trucks, slamming garage doors, and Eric's men screaming at one another.  
  
Scott walked forth until he saw a metal door in the wall. Knowing he would have to check everywhere for Cher, he reached down and hoisted it up, chains and pulleys reeling loudly when he did. It was another shipping room, this one vacant. There was a gaping whole in the wall on the other side, signifying that there was once a ramp there but had probably rotted away in too many spots to have a truck drive all the way up it from the street.  
  
"Hey!"   
  
The voice was coming from behind him. Scott spun around and heard the nauseating crack his jaw made when greeted by a seemingly iron fist.  
  
**  
  
"You know," Eric began, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, "I have a problem maybe you can help me with."  
  
Cher fidgeted in her seat in an attempt to scoot her olive green skirt down from where it had crawled up her legs as a result of all her previous struggling. No need to give this guy a free show, she thought dryly.  
  
Still she replied, "Well, if you're debating suicide, you know where I stand as far as that goes...for you, of course."  
  
"Don't be silly; it's nothing like that. I was thinking, my original plan was to kill you and then, upon arriving to find your warm corpse, Remy would also be killed. But really, if you think about it, where's the fun in that? None, right? Not really, anyway. So maybe I'll wait 'til he arrives, THEN kill you, right in front of his eyes, beat it out of here, and let the God damned Cajun deal with his remorse for the rest of his pitiful life. None of this strangling Charles insisted we do, though. No, when I kill you, it will be glorious- my finest murder yet. It will be, dare I say, a masterpiece." Eric took a moment to contemplate the headlines. SEVENTH MURDER IN THE MASSACRE: This one worst of all. Or even: BRUTAL HOMICIDE AT ABANDONED WAREHOUSE. Yes, he'd show even Al Capone a thing or two.  
  
He looked back to Cher who snorted at his gaze. "Pathetic," she sneered.  
  
"But what I'd really like," he continued, edging ever closer to her, "What I really wish is that you, Cher, would join me in my pursuits. Oh to see the look on that bastard's face when his fiancée is caught in his archrival's arms. Could you just picture it with me for a moment, beautiful? Me, you, a breath-taking sunset, sipping margaritas in sunny Mexico? That'd be the life would it not?"  
  
She turned and smiled sweetly at him before pleasantly saying, "I would rather gouge my own eyes out with a spoon."  
  
The slap that assaulted her face knocked the wind out of the pretty southern belle, but to her surprise, when she looked up, she discovered that it had not been Eric that had slapped her. Instead, it was that Sean guy, pointing his gun right at her, the tip just barely brushing her temple.  
  
"No one talks to the boss like that, bitch. Not even a pair of eyes and legs like yourself." He hissed.  
  
If Cher was surprised by the slap, she was utterly stunned at the blood splattered across her green blazer when Sean was shot twice in the chest. Eric lowered his gun and replaced it casually into his holster.  
  
"No one talks to my hostages like that, Cassidy," he told the man lying lifeless on the ground at Cher's feet. He looked to her, "Unless of course, it's me!"  
  
**  
  
Scott cautiously rose to his feet, making no sudden movements. That is until he was jerked around and facing his assaulter: Logan.  
  
"Did you think I was kidding, Private Dick, when I told you to stay away from them? What the hell are you doing here?"  
  
Scott straightened, no longer threatened. "I could ask you the same thing."  
  
"I saw Remy's getaway car two blocks down, thought I'd come in and offer a hand." Logan shoved Scott once more, not yet satisfied with him. "And you?"  
  
Scott shoved him back. "Remy brought me."  
  
"You should have listened to me, Summers. But no, you always have to be a damned idiot." He paused. "And if you shove me again I'll fucking break your hand."   
  
How could Scott resist?  
  
A few punches thrown at first, but by the time Jean arrived they were a bloody heap on the floor, both bruised and equally at an advantage.  
  
"What the hell are you doing? Stop it! Stop!" Jean screamed, running to where the two beat each other to a pulp. Logan was just about to throw a heavy punch to Scott's cheekbone when Jean wrapped her arms around his neck from behind, pleading for him to stop. "Please! Stop it! Someone will hear you!"  
  
Logan tossed her off of his shoulders, only to be rolled to the floor by Scott's turning weight and be punched equally hard on the nose.  
  
**  
  
Remy's heart dropped at the sound of two shots ringing through the air. He had at first thought it to be Scott's doing, but at closer attention found it to be another's. This struck fear into Remy because those two shots could be going anywhere, or INTO anybody, even the woman of his dreams. Death wasn't courteous to anything, not even love.  
  
Unfortunately, he couldn't determine the shots' location. The building's interior was constructed mostly of metal, causing echoes to travel fast and far, making it impossible for him to pinpoint them.  
  
Without even realizing it, he had circled the entire balcony and found no trace of Cher. When he saw movement coming from within the door just ahead, he ducked into a shadow immediately, until he recognized the figures inside.  
  
Running, he burst into the room and pried Logan off of Scott from under the arms, the stocky Canadian kicking his feet violently in hopes of getting one last hit in.  
  
Scott shot up to a standing position and looked just as eager to resume the fight. He charged Logan once again, but Remy quickly intervened, holding his arms out between them to keep their distance.  
  
"Enough! Enough! We don't have time for dis shit!" He turned to the woman that thought she was slinking in the corner unnoticed. "And you, I'll deal wit' you later." Jean's body wracked at the tone; his teeth were gritted- a sure sign he was beyond anger.  
  
"I'm sorry," she offered weakly.  
  
He raised a hand and said shortly, "Don't."  
  
She was silent after that as Remy filled Logan in on what was going on. Of course, Logan was eager to be of assistance and agreed with Remy's suggestion to split up.  
  
"Alright, I'll take de detective here, and you take Jeannie. What are you wearing?"  
  
Logan whipped out his pistol and cocked it, answering Remy's question.  
  
"Okay, you go dat way, dere's a flight of stairs at de end, go down 'em. Me and Scott will take de ones over dere and den we'll meet up in de middle over dere."  
  
**  
  
Logan silently poked his head into every door, insisting Jean stay behind him.   
  
"So Red, you just couldn't stay put, eh?" He whispered as they made there way through a side door. It led to an open room with three more doors in it, so they crept in and moved soundlessly into the area.  
  
Jean had a sick, anxious feeling dwelling inside of her very being. She wondered for a second if they would find Cher bound and gagged, lying on the floor at their feet in the next room in a pool of her own blood, throat slit. She shuddered involuntarily and chastised herself for even thinking it.  
  
"Red?" Logan prompted.  
  
"Huh? Oh! Um, no, no I couldn't just wait to hear how it turned out. Good or bad I wanted to be here and help."  
  
"You're a good kid, Jean. No matter what happens, I want you to know that and know I mean it sincerely, darlin'."  
  
Jean smiled warmly and proceeded ahead of him to one of the three doors. She felt a sense of renewal at his words. Logan was really something, pretending to be a grizzly man with a heart carved from stone- probably expensive stone, expensive, stolen stones. Like the one he offered her one night almost a year ago to wear around her finger. Funny, not even Remy knew about that one.  
  
But no, Logan was so much more, whether he wanted anyone to catch on or not.  
  
Jean's muffled screams could only have been heard for a fleeting moment before the chloroform-soaked cloth clamped firmly around her mouth sent her into oblivion, her last coherent thought being, 'traitor.'  
  
  
  
  
Note: EEP!  
And of course,  
Review! The next chapter will only arrive after a certain amount of reviews are accumulated for this one, 'cause I'm a sick bitch like that!  
K bye!  



	7. Awwww! Here's the end!

NYC  
  
Cheryl shifted uncomfortably in her restraints. The warehouse was dark, smoky, and stank of cheap whiskey and cheaper cigars. The workers were rowdy, boisterous men with little class and no manners. 'You'll be alraght,' she thought to herself. 'You just have to hold out until Remy shows up.'  
  
Cher didn't doubt once that her fiancée would be arriving any second to save her. Is all she had to do was wait...  
  
"Oh, don't look so sad, sweetheart. Trust me, you wouldn't want to spend the rest of your life with him if you knew what he really was." The sound of footsteps from behind Eric prompted him to spin around. Logan stepped from the veil of darkness and metal pipes, walking casually to where Cher and her captor were.  
  
Her heart leapt momentarily in relief- someone had come, and so soon. But it sank just as quickly upon realizing that Logan had, in fact, not been sent by her love, was not making an attempt to set her free, and was not going to save her. That could only mean one thing: Logan was a traitor. And if Cher knew one thing about Remy, he did not tolerate traitors.  
  
"Logan! How nice of you to finally make it." Eric said wryly, wiping grease from his hands with a dirty, gray rag.  
  
"Would have been here sooner, but I got caught up."  
  
Intrigue rose Eric's eyebrows. "With what, may I ask?"  
  
Logan paced a small plot of cement, a satisfied grin on his face. "I ran into Remy; he's here. He's not alone, though. Detective Summers has decided to provide him company. He has a sister, too" he clenched a cigar between his teeth, "and at present, I have her tied and gagged up in room 214. Creed's watching her."  
  
Cher's glimmering green eyes widened above the gag Eric re-crammed in her mouth for fear she'd give away the location to Remy. A pleased smile curled at Eric's lips at the news. "Really? Splendid, positively splendid."  
  
"You want me to bring her in?"  
  
Eric's head whipped to face his associate. "No, I have a much better idea. Keep the woman there with you, in room 214. If they show up here first, I'll shoot out once, and you kill his sister. If they stumble upon you and her first, shoot and I'll," he threw a glance at Cher, "unfortunately have to kill this beautiful little vixen." He cupped her face with the rough palm of his hand, Cher flinching and at the same time promising to take at least ten showers once she was out of this mess. "Let them come to us."  
  
"Can't save one without killing the other. Hmm, it's sick, perverted, ironic. Brilliant." Logan stabbed Cher with a malicious glare one final time before turning on his heel and vanishing into the shadows again.  
  
**  
  
Jean returned to consciousness like a diver returns to the surface after plunging into watery depths. It was slow, steady, almost pleasing, until she realized why she had blacked out and how she had awoken. She was in a most uncomfortable position: tied against a metal pole that protruded from the ground, her hands secured behind her back with what felt like handcuffs, tight ones at that. She was sick to her stomach, probably a side effect of the chloroform pressed crudely against her face not one hour ago by...  
  
"Logan," she rasped as her eyes eventually sharpened the blurry image of a man standing before her with a gun.   
  
"Naw, you got the wrong guy, lady." Her eyes soon came into perfect focus and she discovered he was right; it was not Logan. This one was taller, much taller, with unruly blonde hair and hands the size of her very head.  
  
She swallowed; her throat was extremely dry, also probably a side effect from the chloroform. "Water," she breathed.  
  
He snorted, "What do you say, missy?"  
  
She pressed her head against the pole. "Please."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I'm comin." He shuffled over to a dark corner Jean couldn't make out and returned with a plastic cup, filled to the brim with the sweet, cool liquid her parched mouth yearned for. He held it to her lips brusquely, as if he was annoyed at such a chore. She swallowed gratefully, the refreshing water bringing back the usual crimson color to her peach lips. When she tried to signal she was done, by inclining her head ever so slightly, Creed did not heed the indication. Instead, he followed every move her head made with the cup, forcing her to swallow it in big gulps as he tipped the cup further and further up. Finally, she could take no more and wrenched her head aside, causing the water to splash across her neck and the collar of her shirt.   
  
"Bastard," she muttered between gulps of air.  
  
He laughed heartily, tossing the cup to the far side of the room. "I thought you might like that, Red." He paused as a nearly inhumane glaze spread across his eyes. "I like 'em wet."  
  
"Go to hell," she snapped, returning his repulsive stare with her own flaming blue one. Her mouth would never, but her eyes said 'fuck off.'  
  
"Careful, Creed. That one packs bite." Came from the doorway.  
  
"That's fine," he replied, his eyes never leaving Jean.  
  
Logan sauntered into the room, glancing idly at Jean's soaked features. "Get outta here, Creed. I think I can handle one frail."  
  
The taller man turned to Logan once he was beside him. "Yea, I bet," he mumbled before leaving the way Logan had come.  
  
The Canadian smuggler, hit man, and traitor didn't say anything for a long time, wanting to make Jean sweat a little. She did, too. In fact, she had never been so scared in her entire, short life. She wanted nothing more than to scream obscenities in his face, but the revolver in his holster told her not to speak until spoken to.  
  
"It's too bad you're here. I wasn't planning on killing any innocents tonight besides the belle, but now, God- you, Scott... anyone else I don't know about?"  
  
She stiffened. "You don't have to kill anybody, Logan."  
  
He scoffed. "Yeah, okay. Grow up, doll-face." He reached for the crisp handkerchief stuffed in his coat pocket, holding it up in offering to wipe her face and neck. She jerked her head and rolled her eyes in disbelief.  
  
"Thanks, but no thanks."   
  
"Oh that's right, little snobs like yourself don't let us peasants touch you. No, you're much too prim and proper for that." He said contemptuously.  
  
"No, I don't let RATS such as yourself touch me. The filth of a traitor is one that can never be wiped clean, not even by them."  
  
He raised his hand high and she screwed her eyes shut, waiting for the back of his hand to crack against her cheek. When it didn't come, she peeked her eyes open, chest heaving in fear. He had lowered his hand.  
  
"That's a warning, princess. Trust me, you only get one."  
  
Jean bit her lip; she didn't doubt the truth to his words. The room went silent, making the sound of men, machines, and merchandise in the other room clearly audible. He refolded his handkerchief and slid it back into the chest pocket, patting it secure.  
  
Finally, he was the one to break the silence. "I wasn't always with Eric, Red. In fact, I just started about a couple of months ago, when he started killing off all those women."  
  
Jean's face went ivory white. "He was the one killing all those women? Oh my God." She paused for a long moment. "Logan," she started weakly, "Please tell me you didn't have anything to do with that. You didn't kill any of those women, did you?"  
  
He sighed. "Nah, that don't do nothin' for me- killing for the thrill. I kill for a reason. Most of the time money."  
  
"Why are you going to kill us?" She cried.  
  
He neared her. "Do you know what's being shipped in here, right below your feet?Merchandise worth more than your brother or me have ever shipped in our entire lifetimes. Eric has major connections, were talking politician negotiations. I'm not going to let you, or your brother, or Cher, or even that Private Dick screw this up for me. After I get my cut tonight and milk it for all it's worth, I'm never going to have to lift a finger again. I'll be a million miles away in some exotic country with more money than God." He shook his head in amazement. "Tons of merchandise- guns, coke, diamonds the size of fucking golf balls."  
  
She cocked her head to the side smugly. "Is that where the diamond you offered me came from- one of these trucks?"  
  
The contact his seemingly iron fist made with her face stung like a bitch, and what's worse, it caught her totally off guard. Her adrenaline pumped hot blood through her veins; she was too scared to whimper.   
  
He clenched his teeth so tightly she thought they might shatter. "Don't. You. Ever. Bring. That. Up. Again. Do you understand?"  
  
Jean should have kept quiet; she even knew that. But like her lover, she loved to tempt fate. "Were you with Eric when you asked me? Huh, Logan, were you a traitor when you got down on one knee?" Immediately she braced herself for another blow, but he just stood their, silent, still, statuesque.  
  
He took a deep intake of air and exhaled through his nostrils. "No, I was not. Your brother and I were still genuine partners. It was before the bust on Sax and 5th."  
  
"We trusted you." She said, not knowing why. Perhaps it was because it disconcerted her to think that a traitor managed to dwell amongst their midst. Remy was always tactically careful as to who seeped through their defenses, and yet here Logan had been, absorbing information the entire time. Or maybe she was uncomfortable with the fact that Logan had once truly been a 'good guy.' Can somebody really make such a drastic change from simple, wealthy smuggler to a money-driven monster with blood-saturated hands? Call her naïve, but Jean didn't think so.  
  
He stopped his aimless wandering of the room. Trust, huh...  
  
"Are you the one that's going to kill us?"  
  
He turned to her with knowing, black eyes. "Shut-up."  
  
"Tell me, Logan." She purred mockingly. "I think I have a right to know. Are you going to be the one that lives the rest of his life with the image of Cher's last terrified gasp of air, of Scott's innocent blood splattered across the wall?"  
  
"I'm warning you, little girl."  
  
"How are you going to end Remy's life? Are you going to have to resort to doing it with your bare hands?" She persisted, struggling against her bonds to let off energy.  
  
He began to pace nervously, perhaps subconsciously knowing what was coming next.   
  
She annunciated each word, whispering softly with a trembling chin and tears welling in her eyes. "Are you going to be the one that puts a bullet in my head?"  
  
Inevitably, he slapped her again, harder, this time her lip opening at the contact. She wheezed as her wind caught back with her. "I said, shut the hell up," he cocked his gun and aimed it at her forehead. "Or I'll answer your damned questions sooner than you think."  
  
**  
  
"Where the hell are they?" Scott shifted his weight from one foot to another to let off nervous energy. He and Remy had made it to the halfway meeting point on time, empty-handed, but Logan and Jean were five minutes late, already. Scott was getting a bit worried.  
  
"Don't worry, homme. Dey'll be here. For all we know dey're checking out a lead. Hopefully dey are, 'cause Remy's not too fond of de idea of staying here all night." Remy ran a hand through his auburn hair, giving him a drunkard appearance, and leaned against the near wall.  
  
At that second, a soft, almost gentle German accent permeated the air, both men turning their heads toward the sound.  
  
"Shh, you here dat, Summers?" Remy whipped his hand out for silence. Scott nodded, following Remy to where the sound came from. It led them to the balcony looking down on the third and final floor. There stood Eric Lehnsherr over Cher, tied to a chair. He was mumbling something to the southern belle that sounded like it was supposed to be sultry. Whatever it was, it appeared to be making Scott's secretary nauseous... and Remy very, very temper-mental.   
  
"C'mon," the Cajun said, making his way lithely down the last flight of stairs, Scott slowly in tow.  
  
"What about Jean, remember, your sister?"   
  
Remy stopped dead and turned to face Scott, his dark, bone-chilling eyes slashing into the detective's own honey brown ones. "Are you implying somet'ing, Scott?"  
  
"No, but Jean and Logan are nowhere to be found. I think it's best we solve that problem first before we go running into a new one."  
  
Remy turned back and continued his agile pursuit down the metal stairs. "I don't. We see dis problem right before our eyes, and I'm going to deal wit' it now. I trust Logan to have kept him self and Jeannie out of trouble, dey're just late." He paused. "Besides, Remy has a plan."  
  
Scott didn't like the prospect of moving forward without knowing the condition of Jean; his gut told him something was wrong. But then again, Remy and Logan were the type of guys that dealt with instincts. Scott went on pure, solid evidence. Maybe, then, Scott was not ecstatic about the idea of those particular two being alone, together. Her and anyone else: Scott, Remy- that would have been fine. But it had to be that damned animal, Logan. Needless to say, it put Detective Summers on edge.  
  
**  
  
Eric, as usual, was talking...and talking...and talking. Cher knew this for a fact, but she had really stopped listening approximately ten minutes ago. It all blended together after a while. 'Such a beautiful thing you are' this, 'join me, gorgeous' that. It was positively redundant, and Cher idly wondered where the hell Remy was. The only thing that kept her sanity was inspecting the merchandise his thugs carried off trucks in the other, visible-from-where-she-was room. Humongous diamonds, fine silks and satins, big, shiny guns Cher didn't know the name of but had an undeniable feeling were ridiculously expensive.  
  
In mid-sentence, Eric was interrupted by a short, foreign worker. The little man approached his boss, wringing his hands timidly.  
  
"What?" Eric snapped.  
  
"I'm sorry to interrupt you, sir, but one of your trucks- it's tipped over."  
  
"What?!" He exclaimed.  
  
"It seems that the ramp in room 19 was blown from the outside, causing the entire truck to come falling down onto the pavement. Come see."  
  
"No," Eric began, "You stay here with her. It seems her knights in shining armor have finally come to her rescue. I knew they'd find us before we found them." With that, he swiftly made his way to room 19 to inspect the damage.  
  
Cher sat watching the little man. He was small, jumpy, and extremely scared of Eric, or really, upsetting Eric. Her observations were abruptly cut short when the little foreigner's body went suddenly limp, his entire self collapsing to the cement floor, revealing a sweaty, tired, but grinning Remy.   
  
"Memmy!" She said, her voice muffled through the gag.  
  
He put his finger to his lips. "Shh, quiet Cher." He rushed behind her and nimbly unfastened the restraints on her hands and the one around her mouth, wasting no time in kissing her fully the minute it was possible.  
  
"Oh! Oh, Gawd, I knew you'd come, Remy!" She whispered excitedly between kisses, Remy managing to work at the rope around her ankles and never break the embrace.  
  
"Hold it right there," Remy heard behind him, along with the cocking of a gun.  
  
**  
  
Scott stopped for a quick breath after jumping in through the window he and Remy had originally entered in. Surprisingly enough, slipping out through the exact window, shooting out the side of the ramp Remy appointed him, and doing it all unnoticed, wasn't as hard as he thought it would be, just taxing. Silently, he made his way down the first flight of stairs, then the second until finally, he was leaning against a far wall directly outside of where he and the Cajun found Cher and Eric.  
  
Immediately, Summers knew there was something wrong. Remy wasn't there, where he said he'd be with Cher, and the entire place was eerily quiet. That is, until he heard...  
  
"Detective Summers, do come out and grace us with your presence," faint German accent and all.  
  
Scott reflexively went to his holster and whipped out his gun, cocking it once and turning the bend of the wall to see a triumphant Lehnsherr standing before Cher, the way she had previously been bound, and Remy, hands cuffed to a large metal pipe. Eric was pointing a gun straight up to the ceiling, his other hand tucked casually in his pocket.  
  
"Do you know why I'm holding my gun like this, detective?" He stopped as if actually waiting for an answer. When he didn't receive one, he continued. "Put the gun down, Summers, or all I have to do is shoot this gun and Jean White dies. She's upstairs, tied to a pole, gun to her head. Oh, and if you were curious as to who is holding the gun to her head, you'll do good to know it's your dear friend," he paused dramatically, but he didn't need to. Scott knew already whom he spoke of. Logan. "Logan." Eric mirrored Scott's assumption. "Now why don't you just slide the gun right over here?"  
  
"You're a liar. Don't listen to him, Summers! He's de one dat killed all dose women! De Manhattan Massacre: it was all him!" Remy called from where he was chained. Three men immediately aimed their own guns at his head, probably the same goons that bestowed the busted lip, black eye, and swollen whelps on Remy's cheeks.  
  
"Liar am I? Well, yes, but not this time, Mister White. Ask your beautiful fiancée here, whom I have come to know quite well myself. She saw the whole thing with her own big, pretty eyes." Eric gestured toward Cher.   
  
Remy looked desperately at the woman he loved. She nodded reluctantly, confirming that Logan was indeed a traitor.  
  
Scott's stomach dropped. What was he to do? Eric made it clear he was not afraid to fire his gun, thus killing the woman that dragged him into love kicking and screaming. Being detective cool and savvy, playing mind-games was all fine and dandy with your average sleeze. This man was not such; he was murderous, bloody, and most importantly very intelligent, cunning, crafty, experienced: never good qualities in an opponent, especially one that held your lover's life in their hands.  
  
"What do you say, Mister Summers? Set the gun down and kick it right over. Come now, is your pride truly worth her life?"  
  
Scott looked to Remy, hoping he might know what the hell to do. The Cajun returned his despairing stare, silently cursing himself for not trying to find Jean before running head first into what he thought was a bigger problem at the time. His fierce love for Cher blinded him into making sloppy, hasty decisions: decisions he used to beat men for making on his time. 'I'm so sorry, Jeannie.' He sent to his sister, hoping she could somehow hear it.  
  
Knowing not what to do, Scott slowly placed the gun on the floor by his feet and gently kicked it to where Eric stood, gun still in hand and directed toward the ceiling. As soon as Scott's gun reached his feet, the mass murderer shot his gun into the air once, the bullets singing through the air in sick glee for freedom.   
  
Scott went blind with rage and betrayal, screaming as he charged Eric. He only made it about four feet before three men Scott hadn't even noticed behind him wrenched him back, holding down his struggling body, silencing the detective just in time for all to hear the two shots ring out on the floor directly above them, Jean's piercing, gurgling screams following soon after. Then, a loud thud as her body collapsed to the floor.  
  
Cher screamed against her gag, providing the only sound in the room aside from Eric's satisfied intake of sweet air. "Ah, That. Is a beautiful sound."   
  
"You sick fuck!" Remy screamed, struggling uselessly against the handcuffs. All energy drained from Scott's body and he suddenly went limp in the thugs' arms. They all but dragged him to where Remy was chained and put in similar restraints as Logan merrily made his way down the stairs, wiping blood from his hands with his handkerchief. The silk, white fabric was quickly painted crimson from the action.  
  
"I've said it before and I'll say it 'til I'm six feet under: Women are workers of Satan. Why, just look at what these two seemingly innocent broads have done to you two strong gentlemen. Brought you to your knees, that's what they've done."  
  
Scott immediately sprung back into action. "You goddamned traitor! I'll kill you!" He thrashed against his cuffs violently. In the meantime, Eric sent his men home with the rest of the workmen. He wanted this to be a private deal in which he privately killed four people.  
  
Remy just stood, stunned, appalled, still burning into Logan with his furious eyes. "Why, Logan? Was it wort' it? Are de diamonds so big dat you had to kill her?" His words came smoothly, evenly, but the drainage of color from his face belied any façade of control.  
  
Logan approached Remy until his face was a mere inches from the Cajun's. Like Remy, he spoke easily, serenely but said only one word in answer to his questions. "Yes."  
  
Remy, in one swift motion, maneuvered his elbow to slam against Logan's jaw, causing the murderer to stumble back a few steps. "Bastard."  
  
As opposed to coming back at Remy, Logan simply walked away, silently nursing his bruised jaw.  
  
Eric howled with laughter and tipped his head back joyously. "Ah! What a riot this has been! But I am afraid, Mister White, that the time has come to end your life." He pointed the barrel of his gun at Remy. "But first," he moved the weapon to Cher's temple instead, the sassy belle not giving Lehnsherr the pleasure of seeing her tremble.  
  
"No! No!" Remy began lashing against his cuffs again and flailing his legs wildly. "Please, I'll do anyt'ing, but not her! Not her, too! I'll work for you! Remy can do anyt'ing you need; I can get into anywhere!" He kept his eyes on the gun in Eric's hand as he desperately babbled compromises and offers. "You want money, Eric! Remy can get as much as you want, as fast as you want!"   
  
Eric raised his eyebrows at Remy. "You can get me anything, you say?"  
  
Remy nodded, teeth clenched. Scott stood next to him, equally aghast at Eric's seemingly endless sadistic morals.   
  
"I want my business partner, and very good friend back: a Mister Charles Xavier."  
  
Remy believed that at that moment, he could do just about anything to keep Cher safe, including resurrect the dead, but Eric apparently didn't seem to think so for he re-aimed his gun at her head and readied himself to pull the trigger.  
  
Until a gun cocked and the wind was knocked out of him from a steel hand clamping around his throat coupled with the feel of a gun resting against the side of his head.  
  
"What's the matter, Logan? Can't decide which side of the fence you want to be on?" Eric mocked the man holding him from behind.  
  
"Not anymore, I know which side, and judging that I have you in a position in which I could kill you in two different ways if I so choose, it shouldn't be too hard to see which side that is. I've done a lot of shit for you, but killing Jeannie was the brink- she was innocent." He tightened his grip around Lehnsherr's neck. "Now drop your gun, NOW, and give me the keys to the cuffs." Eric complied. Logan continued, "Jean, get those boys out of there."  
  
Jean slinked out from behind the far wall's shadows followed by a collective sigh of relief from her three captive friends, and did as she was told. Once free, Remy immediately moved to where Cher was and untied all of her bonds. The instant she was able to move, Remy wrapped his arms around his fiancée and hoisted her off the ground, capturing her mouth with a fervent kiss. "T'ank God," he mumbled.  
  
Logan, in the meantime, hissed to Eric, "And please don't be so naïve as to think Creed will save you. After all, who's blood do you think this is?" He nodded toward the red-blotted handkerchief in his pocket. Eric cringed.  
  
After Remy made sure Cher and his sister were absolutely safe, he stalked toward where Eric remained captured in Logan's arms and threw a punch clear across his cheek, then another to the jaw. Remy dragged him to his feet only to punch him three times more, holding Eric up after every time to get another clean shot. Scott stood behind Lehnsherr, ready to lock his arms to make it easier for Remy if he needed, but it didn't appear to be necessary. "I should kill you." Remy snarled.  
  
"But you won't," his sister said softly, laying a hand on his arm. "He isn't worth it, Remy. I've already called the police."  
  
"Yeah, sugah," came his soon-to-be-wife's voice from the other side. She hooked her arm with his then slid her hand to grab his own. "Let them deal with this piece of trash. If you kill him, you'll get in all kinds of trouble. At least with the other one it was self-defense; this would not be the case." She looked up at him with enchanting green eyes. "And who am I supposed to marry if yoah in jail, swamprat?"   
  
That earned a grin from Remy, and he turned to walk away with Cher in his arms. He didn't even see Eric whip a knife from his inside pocket and lunge toward him...but Logan sure as hell did. A shot rang out, coupled with a startled scream from both women as they spun around just in time to witness a bullet going through the center of Eric's forehead. He fell limply to the ground- his body collapsing like a rag-doll.  
  
There was a stunned silence that scarred the air for a time, until Remy gave Logan a genuine thank you.  
  
"Don't mention it," he returned, turning and walking out of the warehouse.  
  
"Where are you going?" Scott called after him before following, the others doing the same.  
  
"Away, kid. Probably to my place up in ole' Maple Leaf country."  
  
Remy smirked. "We're never going to see you again, are we?"  
  
Logan shook his head. "Nope, prob'ly not."  
  
Remy removed his hand from around Cher's waist and offered it to the Canadian; he took it and they shook firmly. Cher threw her arms around his neck and captured him in a hug. "Thank yah so much."  
  
Jean approached him a bit awkwardly, as if she were unsure he even wanted to talk to her after she pressed his buttons up in room 214. Still, she hugged him despite her uncertainty and was returned with an equally earnest one. "Why?" She questioned.  
  
He sighed. "Lady, you flash your blues once and you could make a man offer his own lungs as a gift...but you already knew that." She blushed, and he turned to Remy and Cher. "And I'm willing to bet same goes for that one," he rose a hand to the woman wrapped in the Cajun's arms. He nodded assuredly and grinned.  
  
The handshake that took place between Detective Summers and Logan was brief and to the point. "Take care of them, Summers...of her." Scott couldn't be sure, but he almost swore the handshake became tighter, almost painful, at that last part, but he brushed it off and promised he would.   
  
And with that, Logan walked out of the warehouse, and out of their lives.  
  
And almost as soon as he left through one door, the police barged in through the back.   
  
"Alright! Nobody move!" Came a bellowing voice from the head of their brigade. The man was not incredibly tall, but extremely built with enormous hands and feet. He whipped out his badge, "Officer McCoy, NYPD." He noticed Scott and immediately brightened. The detective was renowned throughout the department for his good work and at times the two were even known to help each other out on certain cases. "Detective Summers, mind tellin' me what the hell is going on?"  
  
Scott glanced around at his companions. Remy stood stoic, prepared to face the consequences of anything thrown his way. Scott had to admit, the man had guts. After being assured by Remy's body language that he could continue with the truth, Scott recounted every detail to McCoy (all except knowing the whereabouts of a certain running Canadian) as men scribbled every word furiously...  
  
  
**One Year Later**  
  
Scott sat hunched over his desk, mass of papers scattered every which way. Just when he thought his head would explode from looking at the bulk of papers all day, his door swung open and a young, twenty-something woman waltzed into the room. "Detective Summers."  
  
"Yes Kitty." Scott replied, grateful for the chance to look up from his work. Kitty had just started almost a year ago and fell into the swing of things perfectly. And though Scott wasn't sure if Kitty was her real name, he addressed her as such anyway. Grown up way before her time, she usually wore heels too high for her and an up-do too old for her youthful, fresh face. She was a good kid, though, and Scott was glad he landed her.  
  
"Your wife is here to see you." She said sweetly, her eagerness at being able to say 'your wife' to the newlywed not hidden in the least.  
  
"Send her in," he said, smiling ruefully.   
  
"I'll send myself in." A voice called from the doorway.   
  
"I'll leave you two alone," Kitty rose to leave. As she passed Jean she giggled, "Don't you keep him long; he's got work to do Mrs. Summers."   
  
Jean smiled brightly, "I'll try."  
  
With the door closed, Jean sauntered over to Scott and he pulled her down into his lap. "Hey you. What brings you to my humble abode?"  
  
She smiled and ran her fingers through his short, mahogany colored waves of hair, her diamond glittering as it flirted with the sunlight. "I just wanted to check up on my husband. Is that a crime Mister Summers?"  
  
He kissed her once. "No, I don't believe, Mrs. Summers."  
  
"Well, there is one, teensy, little reason I dropped by."  
  
"Aha! I knew it! C'mon, spill it!" He urged.  
  
Jean chuckled playfully. "Well, Remy and Cher are coming up from New Orleans for a visit. Isn't that great?!"  
  
Scott lifted his eyebrows, "Really! Well, that is great! When?"  
  
She smiled sheepishly, "Well, um...Now!"  
  
As if on cue, Remy burst through the door, Cher in tow. "Hey Scottie! Miss us?"  
  
Scott, utterly shocked but pleased, stood from his chair and returned Cher's hug and Remy's handshake. The two women squealed delightfully, ooing and aweing over each other's outfits, hairstyles, and most importantly, the bulge coming from Cher's tummy.  
  
"Look! Look Scott! She's pregnant!" Jean exclaimed.  
  
Scott looked to Remy. "You dog! An addition to the family!"  
  
Remy shrugged, "Yeah. What can Remy say? I t'ink it be time for a li'l Remy junior." He held his hand about waist length to exaggerate his point.  
  
Cher grabbed Jean's hands. "Now you two have tah have one so they can be best friends!" Jean nodded enthusiastically and looked to a blushing Scott.  
  
"Well, we just got married two months ago, but definitely some day... soon."  
  
The four continued to chat amicably for a few hours, recounting every thing that's happened during their time apart.  
  
Detective Scott Summers leaned back in his chair to take a brief moment and think about the drastic changes in his life over the last, brief year. It all led back to that fateful day when a redhead strolled into his office asking he find her brother whom, little did he know, was fiancée to his secretary at the time. Hell broke loose after that, complete with hit men, traitors, and emotional roller coasters. Looking back, Scott realized again what he already knew: he wouldn't have changed it for the world. After all, it was just another year in NYC.  
  
THE END  
  
  
  
  
  
  
There ya' have it!  



End file.
